


Resonance

by CB812



Category: Dissidia: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy XIII, Final Fantasy XIII Series, Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe of an Alternate Universe, Dissidia puns ftw, F/M, Graphic violence in later chapters, Liberal on artistic licence, Love may not conquer all but it sure as hell gives you bravery, Major character death (with a twist), Memory lost (with a twist), Will get heavy, lightis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-05-14 02:31:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 63,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14760914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CB812/pseuds/CB812
Summary: She is a rose with hard thorns and soft petals, who is at the same time cold and warm, strong and vulnerable. He is the man that she will eventually trust enough to open her heart to. They are haunted by lost memories, tormented by guilt, burdened by duty...and doomed by fate.Dissidia AU, i.e. an excuse to write Lightis angst.





	1. New world

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. More mature Noctis. But still keeping with the coming of age theme of the main game. Probably somewhere in between his initial and eventual portrayals from versus to XV. 
> 
> 2\. More melancholic Lightning. This is Valhalla!Lightning. So yes, she’s a bit broken. Still tough as nails and responsible to a fault though. 
> 
> 3\. Setting: Dissidia AU. But since the setup and storytelling of the original game and NT were confusing as hell and thread-bare respectively, I sort-of created my own lore and backstory for this. Memory lost is used as plot device, but with a different spin on it. 
> 
> 4\. Pairing: An exploration of the possibility of Lightis. Slowburn to start, but this is going to be 100% unequivocally Lightis. 
> 
> 5\. Themes: Oddly enough the 'prompt' for this story came from Raymond Carver's landmark work "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love": a meditation on love, loss, companionship, and finding one's way in the dark.

 

Chapter 1: New world

 

_The heart is not so easily changed, but the head can be persuaded._

_._

 

 _Nothingness_.

Is that even a word? Noctis decides that it is.

He is floating in a sea of nothingness.

He is sure that his eyes are open, so why does he see only darkness? No, this is more than just dark; it’s black, eerily silent black. Are his senses losing their functions, or are there simply no sights or sounds to be seen or heard here? His body feels weightless, disconnect from the laws of gravity. And then he is falling, head over heels in an endless cycle, unsure even of which way is up, limbs flailing involuntarily until his mind wills them to be calm.

“What makes anything worth fighting for?”

Who is speaking? He twists around and cranes his neck, the sudden movements pitching him into yet another head-over-heels spiral.

Surely this is not the time or place to be debating the deeper meaning of life. He directs the thought into the inky blackness.

A melodic laughter echoes back, coming from nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

“Just follow the light.”

As soon as her words fade, he is engulfed by a beam of pure white. He has a moment to contemplate how both light and dark are equally blinding in their absolution, before being jarred rudely from his thoughts by a rough jolt. And then he is no longer floating, but being swept on a current.

But to what shores?

.

One by one his senses return. His ears recognize the sound of sand being scrapped along the ground by a crosswind. Eyelids flutter open and almost immediately regret their hastiness as his pupils are assaulted by the bright light of day. The searing heat from the ground he is lying on implores him to his feet. The young man dusts off black fatigues before taking a good look around at his surroundings.

Being back in reality feels good, being no less disoriented than before does not. 

He knows that he has awakened in a foreign land, and that _that voice_ must have had something to do with his arrival here. But beyond that, his mind draws a blank. Where had he come from? And what was he doing before being summoned here? The memories are conspicuous in their absence.

“Worry about the amnesia later.” Honestly, he is a little surprised at how calmly he is handling all of this.

For now, he faces east, directly into the sun. And with a heavy sigh, begins the long walk towards the only semblance of civilization as far as the eye can see.

.

The imposing structure before him is made up of a drum-shaped base from which a massive dome rises into the sky. Silhouetted against the late morning sun, it shimmers like polished marble, giving off an aura of radiance.

He narrows his eyes against the glare and tries to suppress a yawn. The architecture marvel should have invoked a sense of awe and wonder, but for some reason he doesn’t feel very impressed, as if the grandeur of the cathedral is something he is used to seeing on a daily basis. Besides, all that walking is making him sleepy.

Ascending the wide block-like steps, he makes his way to the entrance of the temple, passing between two of the colossal fluted columns and under the high arches of the porch, serenaded by the sound of his own footsteps ringing out on the marble stone floor.

The entrance itself is guarded by a pair of iron-bronze doors, which are unbolted and open. Shrugging, he takes the invitation to enter. But beyond the threshold he pauses, an involuntary shiver running through him. The air had abruptly turned chilly; an invisible barrier blocking out the sun’s heat.

The temple is barren of windows, light being admitted solely through a small oculus at the apex of the dome. At first glance, the space housed within the temple seemed immense. But he is quick to catch on to the optical illusion created by the absence of any interior architecture, save for a shrine that had been erected in the middle of the expanse. Oddly enough, this shrine holds no altar; only an empty throne, crudely carved from crystal, with a frame of inverted icicles stretching up as if reaching for the light.

.

The sounds reach him first, a testament to how dimly lit the place is. Voices. Two voices, both feminine. The first he instantly recognizes as the one who had called him here. He cocks his head to the side, straining his ears to pick up bits of their conversation.

“Goddess...” The second voice speaks, addressing the first.

The goddess has hair the colour of mid-autumn leaves. Her grab is a flowy archaic tunic that looks like it is made entirely from silk. In her right hand she brandishes an elegant staff adorned with a crown of crystals. She may look a frail beauty on the surface, but he senses an exorbitant power emanating from around her – power strong enough to bridge the gap between worlds.

The other is clad in a knight’s armour, its hard edges and pointy spikes softened by a cape of feathers draped across her left hip. She has forgone a helmet, revealing hair the most peculiar shade of – pink? But that isn’t the only thing unusual about her; she appears to be glowing faintly, like a twinkling star in the dark night sky, soft but captivating, and so ethereal that he can’t just dismiss it as the glint of sunlight off of silver plates. Rather, the unnatural gleam seems to be coming from the exposed areas of her face and arms, as if she herself were luminescent, actually glowing from within with white light that seeps through translucent skin.

If not for the steel she wore he may have mistaken her as the divine being amongst the two.

The knight paces back and forth as she speaks, her movements light despite the weight of her armour. The tone of her voice is harsh, angry. Gauntlet covered fists remain clenched at her side. The only words he can make out are “fight...go home...truth...deserve to know...”

He watches the standoff between them go on for several tense minutes.

Then, like a switch being flicked, her hard stance fades, the tension melting off her shoulders. Her next words are softly spoken and lost to the distance between them. Though their effect on the goddess is immediate as she whirls around to face her.

With the light on her back casting her face in shadow, the knight lowers herself on a bent knee. Her right arm curves in at the elbow, fingers coming to rest over her heart.

He blinks. Geez, hard to believe there are people who take apologizing this seriously.

But despite her adopted posture on the ground she keeps her face boldly raised, looking fixedly at the goddess; in a manner that is neither conciliatory nor disrespectful to the higher being.

She speaks, just three words that resonate loud and clear within the cold walls of the temple.

_“I will fight.”_

.

The goddess, who introduces herself as ‘Cosmos’, bestows a smile upon him.

A million questions occupy his thoughts, but he gives voice to the most pressing.

“Are my friends alright?” Though he can’t remember their names or even their faces, he _knows_ that he has friends back home who must be worrying about his safety, just as he is worrying for theirs right now.

Amusement flickers in the goddess’ eyes, “You know, that was _her_ first question too.” She doesn’t need to clarify who ‘her’ refers to.

So Cosmos had been aware of her little audience of one all along. He flushes, looking suitably sheepish at having been caught eavesdropping. Fortunately, the goddess doesn’t pursue the matter further, deciding instead that some explanations are in order.

“Your friends are well, back in the world that you come from. Forgive my impoliteness at summoning you here without first seeking your consent. But I give you my word that once the task I ask of you is done, you will be restored to your home, to the precise frame in time from which you were called forth; it will be as though not a single second has passed during the time you’ve spent here.” 

“A task?” For him?

The goddess nods once, her lips pressed into a thin line. “This world, it faces a death sentence. _Dissidia_ – the name itself means bloodlust; a call for and to battle. You see, our world is unlike others. It was born in the wake of a cataclysmic cosmic battle between Gods, from a time long passed. A great magical energy inhabits this earth. Not a god or guardian spirit; but a semi-sentient pool of _mana,_ given will and form by the land – the soul of the planet if you will. But this magic came with a price. The land is in constant attrition, sustained only by the energy created from the throes of battle, the very essence from which it was born.”

“For eons the realm was ravaged by war, to feed the hunger of the land. Cities were born and destroyed, and soon our people grew weary of the fighting, choosing to abandon arms and await the end of the world in peace.”

“As the decay grew, so did my desperation. As a last resort, I invoked the power of the crystal to summon you here, along with other distinguished warriors from universes across time and space. To do battle; to save our world from its cursed fate.”

Concluding her summations with a small bow of her head, the goddess leaves him to contemplate over his decision.

There is a violent throbbing behind his temples. This world is all kinds of screwed up, almost as screwed up as this so-called ‘task’ the goddess is asking of him. Forced to take up arms against others who have done him no wrong, and who would essentially be his own allies in fighting for the same hopeless cause; either that or sitting idly by while an entire world crept toward its preordained doom. There is no honour or dignity in any of this. And yet the unfairness and absurdity of it all resonates with him, though he doesn’t understand why.

An ominous silence fills the dome, broken only by the drone-like humming of the crystal.

The goddess is looking at him expectantly but with unconcealed guilt and an imploring look in her eyes. He knows there is but one answer he can give; three words that have already been uttered once in this place, by someone who had starred down the same abyss he now finds himself looking into. Her words still resonate in his head, as he stood where she had knelt in oath.

_“I will fight.”_

.

The landscape is barren and arid, the harsh winds and lack of protective vegetation resulting in denudation of the rocky outcrops, all painted in the same monotonous colour wheel of sand-gold and chestnut-brown. Two figures trudge up the narrow path that winds around the rock formations, leading to the place known as _‘the grounds’_.

His companion is a silver-haired lad, who looks to be somewhere in his mid-teens, with all the vigour and exuberance of youth. The boy stares at him like he has sprouted a second head when he introduces himself as “Noctis, Noctis Lucis Caelum”, nodding his head once in greeting.

“Just ‘Noct’ is fine as well.” He hurriedly tags on.

“The name’s Vaan.” The teen jabs a thumb at himself, grinning broadly, “no middle name, no last name.”

Vaan was assigned to be his guide, bringing him up to speed and explaining the idiosyncrasies and nuances of this world. Though by his own admission, he had only just arrived here two weeks before.

“So, you’re probably wondering where your memories went.” Vaan twirls a short scimitar idly in his hand as he speaks.

He nods. That was one thing the goddess had neglected to explain.

His companion cocks his head to the side, perhaps pondering how best to answer. Then all of a sudden he whirls around, raising his sword arm and swinging it down sharply. The dagger leaves his hand, singing through the air. Noctis reacts on instinct, engineblade manifesting in his grasp. Steel meets steel with a clang and the scimitar is deflected away, spinning back like a boomerang towards its owner, who easily plucks it out of mid-air by the hilt.

“See, you remember how to fight don’t you?” Vaan says pointedly, not at all fazed by the silent glare Noctis is sending him. “Our memories are not gone, they are right where they’ve always been; we’re just not able to access them right now.”

“It just means that we still retain our procedural memories”, he argues, “That’s no different from remembering how to drive a car or speak a language. You really didn’t need to test my reflexes to prove that point.”

“It doesn’t explain why I have _no idea_ where I came from or what I was even doing prior to landing in this mess.”

Vaan seems distracted for a moment, starring off into the distance. Noctis follows his line of sight to a little valley some ways off, shrouded in dark shadows. He can just make out the outlines of old dilapidated buildings that had been built into the rock face, and surrounding them, an extremely odd conglomeration of patched houses and slums, half reduced to rubble, and long since abandoned by their former occupants.

It’s all very bleak and dreary, but it seems to strike a chord with Vaan.

“But you remember that you were doing something important. Something that you need to go back to finish.” The youth eventually says, all semblance of a cheeky street urchin replaced momentarily by a young man wise beyond his years.

“Thing is, everyone here retains aspects of ourselves that have been shaped by our past experiences; we just don’t have the memories to go with it.” He explains, crossing his arms behind his head. “Like knowing you are afraid of the dark but not knowing why.”

“It’s almost as if what should have been a three-way link between our memories and our subconscious and conscious minds has been broken – the conscious cut off like a switch flicked, or a gate locked.”

“So it is deliberate, then?” He knits dark brows, feeling foolish for not figuring it out sooner. It’s almost _too_ convenient – if one needed to gather a group of warriors and take away their agencies and agendas, leaving only trained fighting machines who would consent to do battle for whatever eons it took to restore this land.

What a darkly terrifying power. And to think that the magic of this world is capable of a feat like this.

At the edge of his consciousness – just outside the comprehensible grasp – he senses the maelstrom of his repressed memories, swirling in the murky depths, tantalizingly close but always floating just out of reach.

And yet...

Back at the temple, how was it that the simple thought of his friends could imbue his heart with feelings of strength and courage? “Maybe our minds remember the moments and events as they were perceived through the five senses, but the heart remembers how it _feels_. Whatever spell or enchantment this world has conjured on our minds, it hadn’t factored in the immutable nature of the heart.”

“Woah, that’s pretty deep.” Vaan sounds genuinely impressed. “I gotta remember that one for future newbies. But yea, you get the picture. This whole situation’s pretty much a mindfuck. And you haven’t even heard the punch line to the joke. A mysterious phenomenon, well, we call ‘em _‘intrusions’_. Essentially it’s what happens when a piece of memory pushes its way through to the surface, and you’re forced to relive it. They can come on anytime and anywhere, awake or asleep, no trigger no warning.”

_No gate can’t stay locked forever, not if something on the other side is adamant on forcing its way through._

Noctis frowns harder, unable to shake the apprehensive feeling that the gods were playing with fire here, by tampering with something as fundamental as memories, upsetting the precarious balance between the head and the heart. Someone is bound to end up getting burned badly. At the end of the day, humans are a species that wants and needs to understand who they are.

His train of thoughts is derailed by the sudden swirling of the ground beneath his feet. He stumbles back, pivoting around a full three-sixty, eyes widening as they take in the changing of the landscape around him; the arid desert plain being replaced by a lush green meadow right in front of his eyes.

“What the–”

Vaan turns to him, flashing pearly whites in a full-faced grin. “This is ‘ _the grounds’_ , where the _sentience_ of the planet is at its strongest. It draws upon the slumbering memories of its warriors to create arenas for battle. This and the crystal you saw back at the temple are the true _gods_ of this world.”

“Ah.”

A few dandelions sprout at their feet, swaying on their stalks as if waving in greeting. “Hey look, it likes you.” Vaan quips. “Normally it enjoys welcoming unsuspecting newcomers by dumping them on their asses with a mini-earthshake.”

“Well, this is it then.”

“Welcome to _Dissidia_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what Dissidia actually means.


	2. Strangers in a strange land

Chapter 2: Strangers in a strange land

 

_Perhaps one day we will meet, as characters in a different story. Maybe we’ll share a lifetime then._

.

 

 _‘The grounds’_ are abuzz; with swords and lances of all designs and classes on full display, twirled around by their respective wielders in effortless practice swings. Noctis follows Vaan’s lead, trailing a couple steps behind his guide as the pair makes their way over to where a tiny girl with long blonde hair and a wintry sort of beauty about her is hovering in the air a few feet above the ground.

“Terra, Noct. Noct, Terra.” Vaan makes the quick introductions. Terra’s smile is warm, and he immediately feels less unease and out of place (and not to mention under-dressed!) amongst the more stately looking warriors.

“Vaan must have told you how things work here; generally there aren’t that many rules of engagement, just –”

“Kick ass and take names? Don’t worry T, N can handle himself. Just try not to get killed on your first day here.” Vaan gives him a punch on the shoulder, still grinning wildly, eyes lighting up like a kid on Christmas day.

He grins back, the boy’s enthusiasm rubbing off on him. His belly flutters a little with anticipation, and he casts an appraising glance across the field at the opposing team. “Don’t think I could hold back even if I wan–”

_Her._

She cut a solitary figure, standing a few paces off from the rest, rose-coloured hair fluttering lightly in the wind.

“Hey 3, don’t be so standoffish! None of us got any fleas, well maybe except for Zidane.”

“Hey!” The monkey boy being addressed protests, springing out of the one-handed handstand pose he had been holding to cross his arms over his chest.

‘3’ lets out an exasperated sigh, taking a step closer to her teammates.

He lets his eyes roam slowly over her, like taking in the finer details of an intricately crafted sword. She looks smaller up close, lithe and supple and build for agility. Who knew that armour could accentuate a woman’s figure like this? A sudden warmth floods his cheeks, and he forces his gaze back up to her face. Tousled pink waves cascade lightly over a pauldron-clad shoulder. But it is her eyes that stand out – flame-blue orbs that give him the impression of glowing embers, crackling softly with a tempered fire.

So he would be having his first battle against her. There is a sudden quickening in his chest; the flutter in his stomach now replaced by hundreds of butterflies flitting about excitedly.

“3 is mine!” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

An edgy silence descends over Cosmos’ warriors. Noctis is acutely aware of their collective stares being directed at him. He rubs the back of his head with a hand awkwardly.

“Aw cripes, I forgot to tell the newbie about the telepathy system.” Vaan groans with a literal face-palm.

‘3’ looks confused for a second, her eyes snapping up to meet his. Then she lifts her chin, blue embers flaring to life as her gaze turns from cool to smouldering. Her shoulders are drawn back and she plants a gauntlet clad hand on her waist. Her mouth remains in a thin line.

He knows what that look means.

 _Bring it_.

.

It takes all of his strength to parry the Claymore greatsword that seems intent on detaching his head from his shoulders. Around him the Armiger weapons hum, reflecting bright sunlight into sinister yellow eyes that pierce through the visor of his adversary’s distinctively horned helm.

Taking advantage of his opponent’s momentary distraction, he doubles back to where Vaan and Terra are locked in battle with Zidane and ‘3’; his teammates faring slightly worse in their attempts to evade and counter the quick attacks of the duo. He warps in just in time to knock Zidane off Terra, meeting the former’s dual falchions by summoning a pair of his own. The latter’s reaction is a soft blush, before her eyes once again harden into steel and her focus returns to the fight at hand.

The battle hasn’t quite gone as he had envisioned it would. Despite his eagerness to square off with _her_ , he knows there is no room for ego in a team-based battle, and that it is imperative to fight as a unit rather than dissolving into individual duels. She seems to concur with this, alternating between the roles of supporting and protecting her vanguard teammate during his headlong charge into the enemy formation, while biding her time and waiting for an opening to attack.

“Hey, pretty-boy.” He turns to meet glowing yellow eyes once again. The dark knight angles his massive Claymore at him, revealing its transformable nature as it collapses into an anvil, which he grasps by a chain. “You gonna make good on that challenge or what?”

He stretches an equally massive arm towards his teammate, who has just scored a direct hit on Vaan, opening up a deep slash along his flank. She moves to follow-up but has to flip away from Terra’s flare attack. “Don’t pretend you haven’t been eyeing her since the start of our battle. You want her? Go get her.”    

“Well?” The flail hammer smashes into the ground, with enough force to splinter a crack in the earth. Noctis can feel his teeth chatter even though he has warped a good twenty feet away from the blow.

“Go on Noct, we’ve got these two!” By now Vaan and Terra have regrouped, double-teaming on Zidane, the monkey-boy having to use all of his nimbleness and every acrobatic trick in the book to avoid taking a fireball to the face.

He wavers a few seconds more, until a blitzing arc of electricity nearly melts the boots off his feet.

Oh, it’s _on_.

What strategy does one employ when facing an unfamiliar opponent for the first time? It’s a question that will likely be debated to the end of time. But to his mind, it’s almost always a good idea to open aggressively, utilising the element of surprise. You learn most about someone when you got them on the back foot; then you can conduct your interrogation into their coolness under fire, their weak points and holes in their guard, their transitions between defence and offense, and how far they are willing and able to push themselves in battle.

He doesn’t hold back, unleashing the full range of his spectre weapons. Delivering a flurry of quick successive strikes with his engineblade, chaining into heavier crushing blows from his greatsword and halberd, and then finally lunging in with his lance. The steel pike pierces through thin air, and he barely succeeds in pivoting out of the way of her counterstrike.

_She’s fast._

Darting forward and then flipping back, spinning, pivoting, switching seamlessly from her longer range casting to close range sword strikes, feinting attacks then following up with heavier blows based on the anticipated response. Through it all she was never stationary, never in the same place for longer than an instant. A striking blend of speed and unpredictability, like the element of lightning that she favoured. It felt like he was defending against ten assailants simultaneously; and attacking her was like trying to hit a constantly roving target. Even without the ability of teleportation, she gave the impression of being everywhere and nowhere, all at once.

 _My turn._ You may be fast, but can you match _real_ teleportation? He tries not to smirk _too_ hard as he savours her reaction to his warp-strikes – the widening of blue irises and the slight stumble that he finally elicits from her as she fends off the blows that are coming in from all directions and altitudes.  

Sensing his chance he summons his arsenal, the armaments crystallising in the air around him, menacingly angling down at her like the bared fangs of a behemoth. He peruses the weapons, selecting his favourite spear and grasping the ashwood shaft, saving it for a final warp-strike should the storm of swords fail to incapacitate its target.

At his command, the weapons shoot forth like deadly arrows. The knight weaves coolly through the sharpened steel raining down on her. He is grudgingly impressed; no matter what he throws at her she always seems to be two steps ahead, with a sense of anticipation that borders on the precognitive.

Well in that case, time for the end-game. He launches the spear high into the air, warping up to it, and then plunging down with all his might. There is a fleeting moment of exhilaration as he feels the point connect with solid flesh; before he is cleaved nearly in half by two ginormous S-shaped blades that she had conjured out of thin air.

Hey, that’s _my_ trick!

_._

Waking up in an unfamiliar place was like a bad joke that got old the first time.

A cursory inspection reveals that one, he has woken up in an infirmary of sorts, wearing a kimono-like medical gown cinched loosely around the middle. And two, not only is he very much alive, in fact, he looks none the worse for wear; _feels_ none the worse for wear. The last thing he remembers is palming his abdomen over spilling guts and blood spurting out in rivets. Then there were three, maybe four, seconds of mind-numbing pain, before his world went black, like a candle being snuffed out. He looks down, lingering over his bare midriff. The wound should have been fatal, _was_ fatal.

“Why am I...?”

“Why are you not dead?”  He turns to see Vaan lounging languidly in a chair bedside. He laces his hands together behind his head, wincing as the movement stretches the deep gaping slash on his side. 

“I probably should have explained this earlier. But hey, nothing like a first-hand experience right?”

He holds out his right hand, palm side up. A crystal – no larger than the size of a small stone and shaped like an obelisk – hovers in the air above it, casting a spear of silver hue that condenses over the gash on his side, the tissues slowly pulling together and sealing the gaping flesh. From the strain on his face, it is apparent that the crystal’s healing is not without effort.

“It’s called a _‘cor’_ – a literal crystallisation of the magic of this world. This is the magic that summoned us to this world, and is what binds us here.”

Healing complete, Vaan pockets his cor, before resuming his exposition.

“It also has the ability to imitate other forms of magic – that’s what allows us to access the magic of the worlds we come from. Perhaps we all have little residues or traces of magic left behind from past use, a unique magical signature that the crystal can feed on, amplify, and imbue back to us.”

It’s a sound theory, although it did not explain his condition.

“Dying is the trigger.” Vaan explains, as if he reading his mind. “The cor revives its master, healing all wounds and ailments in a manner of minutes. You might be comatose for a period while everything ‘resets’, so to speak. And sometimes you wake up with a skull-splitting headache, but that’s about all you have to show for it.”

A literal cycle of death and resurrection; it defied the most fundamental law of nature. Yet there was a plain logic to it, a symbiosis of sorts – why go through all the effort of summoning a warrior here, only to have them checkout before the day was done?

_At the end of the day, not even the Gods fight necessity._

“Its power is not limitless though.” Vaan warns.

“Of course not. No magic ever is.” The plight of this world is proof enough of that. Using magic like this, there had to be a price or penalty; a clause written in fine print at the bottom of the page.

A burst of prismic light shoots forth from his chest, spreading out in a circular arc, a swirl of colours that eventually coalesce into a crystal on his outstretched palm. His fingers close gently around it as it pulses and throbs, like grasping an actual beating heart. It feels like an extension of himself; not quite flesh, or soul, or spirit, but as much a part of him as any of those three things.

“You’re taking this pretty well, all things considered.” Vaan remarks offhandedly.

Noctis shrugs. “As soon as you realise that this is _‘that kind of place’_ , you really stop being surprised at every little thing.”

There’s just one more question on his mind.

Vaan gives him a knowing wink, grinning toothily, and proving once again to be far more perceptive than his youthful and uncouth appearance would suggest.

“You got her, dude.”

_“Straight through the heart.”_

.

As far as sleeping arrangements go, Lightning has to admit that it could have been much worse.

Thiers is one of the smaller residences, a trifle mercy in the grand scheme of things. Although the larger barracks-like lodgings did hold a certain familiarity and comfort for her, she rather not be exposed to the collective viewership of the entire motley crew if, no, – _when –_ the inevitable ‘ _intrusions’_ were to hit. After all, the cursed things spared no consideration for privacy, and gave no warning to their arrival.    

Plus, on the sliding scale of sanity, some of Cosmos’ hand-picked elite were already looking like an extreme left. One had started shrieking about a ‘C-D’ during the battle, and then engaged in a vicious sass-off with her opponent, a pint-sized humanoid-chipmuck who insisted on speaking in rhyme.

Hate to wake up next to one of them on a bad hair day.

As for her new roommate, the person she will henceforth be sharing a living space with – after their mutual K.O. during today’s skirmish, it seems almost ironic that the _will of the land_ had deemed them to be instantaneous best-buds and manifested a little cottage at the outskirts of the warriors’ settlement just for them. You know, since they had ‘hit it off so well’, in the words of that little street-rat Vaan, who had looked overly tickled by the whole thing. She had almost punched him in the nose. ‘Almost’ being the imperative word. Or they might be hauling in an extra bed for him right now, going by that damn logic.

Lightning scoffs under her breath. Seriously, how can anyone here be friends? Not when a teammate today could be a rival tomorrow. The battlefield’s no place for hurt feelings or hesitation. Only a naive fool would think it possible to go from wanting to knock each others’ lights out, to ‘fight's over, we're all friends now!’ just like that.

No, she shakes her head. She has a job to do here. And that doesn’t involve forging new friendships or alliances.

“Though I suppose it wouldn’t be too hard putting up with one roommate.” She reluctantly concedes.

Pretty boy, or ‘Noctis, Noctis Lucis Caelum’ as he had introduced himself, is currently passed out in a deep slumber on the bed across from hers. She frowns, remembering the way his coal-black eyes had been scrutinising her so intensely before the battle.

She glances over at his sleeping form, taking in fine aristocratic features, softened by a boyish face and framed by dark locks styled into front-bangs and back-spikes; undoubtedly the scion of highborn stock. A lesser man may have found it discomfiting to be in close proximity with him, because he gave off a regal air that stops just short of being intimidating; like a young monarch, not yet fully confident in his authority.  

Up close she can see the detailed embroidery of his vest. Even his name spoke of someone with destiny, anointed by birthright. She experimentally rolls the syllabuses off her tongue, testing the sound of it from her lips. He twitches at the mention of his name, but otherwise remains in a flat-out snooze.

His earlier attempts at initiating conversation had been thoroughly rebuffed. She deliberately kept her replies short and prosaic, as if answering for the sake of answering and having no interest otherwise. Being forced to share a space was one thing; but sharing a life, that she still has a choice in. She punctuates her feelings with a kick to the hardboard floor with the toe of her boot.

But now, in the stillness of the night, plagued by feelings of growing unrest, she almost wishes for that mindless distraction. Her eyes survey the room for the n-th time. The place is furnished with only the most basic of furniture. Its bare walls smell of cement, not even covered with a coat of paint. It had no identity, a reflection of herself as she is now – a blank slate.

She shakes her head again. No, that’s a lie. She isn’t a blank slate, only possessing the appearance of one. She has a past, and the ghosts that reside there are not so easily forgotten. Even without memories she remains a haunted being, besieged by incomprehensible feelings of guilt and failure, with secrets and skeletons hiding behind locked doors and closets, waiting to be exposed.

Retrograde amnesia – the ability to form new memories whilst being unable to recall old ones. Because they can still create new memories, people with retrograde amnesia are acutely aware that they have a cognitive deficit; are constantly reminded that they have lost something important – a crucial piece that is key to solving the puzzle of _who they are_.

“Get a grip! Don’t think of the unnecessary.” She admonishes herself.

Easier said than done. Emotions are an unfamiliar territory for her; a minefield that she has always threaded carefully around, capable of exploding at the slightest touch. But now the tripwire has been triggered, raking her with shockwave after shockwave of emotions, most of which she can’t even name or make sense of.

But she recognizes the primal feelings of pain, and fear.

Fear not for the future; _but of the past_.

She lets out a bitter laugh. The irony is not lost on her – that the past can be a spectre to be feared.

She gives up the battle with her tumultuous emotions, gives up trying to calm the quivering of her heart. Closing her eyes, she welcomes the sleep; and with it, the dreams...

.

The memory comes unbidden, as she sleeps.

“I was just like you.”

She is speaking, or rather, memory-her is speaking. Who were the words meant for? She doesn’t know. The voice is unaccompanied by faces or visuals, like listening to an audiotape recording on playback.

It’s odd that her first memory would be a verbal one, as most people relied on sight as their dominant sense, thus exhorting the role of images as a vehicle of memory. Though the lack of visuals has the uncanny effect of making it seem like the voice was speaking right to her – present-her.

The monologue continues. “My parents died. I had to be strong for Serah. I thought I needed to forget my past. So I became Lightning.”

The sound of her own voice is disconcerting in how familiar yet foreign it is; the information it is revealing even more so. Her heart pounds in a gradual crescendo. Her fingers curl into fists, nails digging into the pink flesh of her palms. And yet she can only listen in transfixed silence.

“I thought that by changing my name, I could change who I was. I was just a kid.”

What’s in a name really? To most it’s the first gift they receive upon entering the world, words chosen with meaning and hope, that become part of an individual’s lifelong identity. Others may choose to change their name when they are older, whether it be for traditional reasons like marriage, or extreme reasons like faking a death. Or simply because they wanted a name more representative of themselves and who they thought they were or wished to be. 

_“Lightning...it flashes bright then fades away...it can’t protect, only destroy”._

The grim verdict is delivered in calm resignation.

“Serah...” There is a little crack in her voice that mirrors that one on her heart. The whisper of that name alone stirring a myriad of feelings so raw and tender. The pain is phantom she knows, yet she can’t help grabbing at her left chest, as if that would soothe the terrible ache deep inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cor mean heart in latin (nothing to do with the character from XV).


	3. Lightning in the night

Chapter 3: Lightning in the night

 

Lightning is a creature of habit. 

It doesn’t take her long to settle into a routine of waking at the crack of dawn, and kicking off the day with a long jog.

As far as she is concerned, there are essentially two groups of people, no matter what world one comes from – those who are morning persons, and those who are not. If asked, she would not hesitate to place herself firmly in the former. But truth is, she’s been finding it hard to get any sleep at all. Every night she finds herself lying in wait, tense and mentally unable to shut down; not a predator but the prey, an animal that knows it is being stalked. And there’s nothing she can do but wait for the nightmares to catch her.

She feels silly being preoccupied with this. Like a highschool kid, waiting in trepidation for the results of an important test, dying to find out how she did, but at the same time afraid to know. Maybe ignorance really is bliss. Maybe forgetting the past was actually a kindness in disguise. After all, from what secrets her heart could divulge, the truth was going to be a bitter pill to swallow.

_They say destiny has one great test in stored for each of us. Has mine already come, and have I failed it?_

No matter where you go, you can never outrun yourself or your thoughts. She thinks bitterly as she pushes herself into a flat-out sprint. As autonomic reflexes shunted blood and oxygen to pumping muscles both skeletal and cardiac, in order to keep up the punishing pace, her mind was forced to fade to autopilot for now. It does so without much of a struggle.

She celebrates the small triumph with a wry smirk.

“Didn’t think it would be as simple as that.”

From inside her leg-pack her cor chimes gently, seemingly happy to see her emerge from the pits of her brooding. She glances down fondly at it, giving it an acknowledging pat. The first time it did that had been right after her first _intrusion_ , the little chimes a soothing balm to her frazzled nerves.  

The scenery is changing now, the dirt path she had been ascending giving way to rocky hills, her cue to turn around and head home. 

Home...was that a Freudian slip? When had she started to think of the residential lodging she shared with the black-haired boy as home?

Speaking of said roommate, he’d probably still be deep in slumber by the time she got back; no amount of alarm clocks proving up to the task of waking him before the sun was high in the sky.

She clicks her tongue. “Tch. That one is undoubtedly _not_ a morning person.”

.

Noctis is awakened by a tickle at the back of his nose. It starts as a little sniffle that gives way to a sharp inhale and finally a cathartic blast, except his comes out more as a mousey squeak. Ok, so he is one of those kitten-sneezers, at least there is no one else here to hear it. Although the timing of the sneeze does strike him as odd, as the room was far from dusty thanks to his fastidious roommate. Maybe he is catching a cold.

Cracking open bleary eyes, he squints at the morning sunlight spilling in through the window and kicks off the duvet tangled around his legs, stretching out kinks in his neck and shoulders. The soreness always feels worse in the mornings. He winces as he leans a bit too heavily on his left wrist, still swollen and bruised from a bad sprain he had picked up the day before. His cor had healed the worst of the injury, but it would still be difficult wielding the larger two-handed weapons in his arsenal.

He turns to see a perfectly made bed across from his, with its sheets pulled taut, their edges tucked and folded neatly around the corners, as if no one had slept in it the night before. It’s a familiar sight; one he has been waking to every morning.

He has also been waking up to the exasperated calls and angry scowls of his roommate as she learned how difficult it is to rouse a heavy sleeper. Fortunately or unfortunately for him (he’s still deciding which), she hasn’t backed down from the challenge, if anything her methods are getting more creative. Yesterday she had only given him up to five ‘Noctis-es’ before she had dug her knuckles into his sternum.

His thoughts drift to her. There’s something off about her, although he can’t quite put his finger on what. Though he senses that her issues track far deeper than what appears on the surface. While at first glance she gave the impression of a tranquil river, every angler worth his salt knows that still waters run deep. The memories from his first encounter with her back in Cosmos’ temple are still fresh in his mind – her bitter-laced anger, replaced too soon by calm acceptance.

She was always so morose and taciturn that it has been near impossible to have any kind of meaningful dialogue, despite their shared living quarters. And unfortunately for poor Noctis, striking up a casual conversation was not exactly something that came naturally to him, and thus far all attempts at doing so had been awkward and soul-crushing:

“So...Lightning, huh? I hope you gave your parents hell for that name.”

The attempt at humour had failed miserably to break the ice.

“So...you single? Taken? Or...?”

“Waiting for my memories to clue me in.” A deadpanned reply.

“So...is the pink natural?”

The look she had given him basically said that she wasn’t going to dignify that with an answer.

And when he had ask why she insisted on leaving the house ten minutes earlier than necessary every time, she had fixed him with a hard stare before declaring that arriving first to an appointment demonstrates two things about one’s character: one, you are reliable, and two you are reliable. He had gotten the last laugh by warping ahead of her and arriving first to the battlegrounds.

“Damn teleporter.” She swore under her breath, ignoring his protest of “ _it’s called_ _warping!”_

“Poor you, stuck with sergeant hardass.” Vaan had snickered, jabbing an elbow into Noctis’ ribs.

He is still rubbing the remnants of sleep from his eyes when he hears the rattle of keys and footsteps padding across the hall. “Morning!” he calls out, and she almost does a double-take. She tries to hide her surprise at seeing him awake behind one of her patented Lightning scowls, and he tries not to look too smug.

Perspiration glistens on her philtrum and her fringe is matted. She grabs fresh clothes on her way to the shower stall, but pauses at the doorway, just long enough to call over her shoulder, “Coffee’s in the kitchen.”

They go separately about their morning routines. A short while later they are both in the foyer and in the process of pulling on boots and lacing them up; or rather she is doing so while he fumbles with his laces for the dozenth time, the simple task made frustrating hard by a bumped wrist.

Without missing a beat she is crouched down in front of him, nimble fingers lacing up his boots with a deft expertise. The same boots she had pulled off him on more than one occasion when he had collapsed in bed too exhausted to even move. He doesn’t recall and she hasn’t mentioned any of it, but he knows that boots don’t mysteriously take themselves off and line up neatly by the door.

Her expression softens as she looks up at him. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but then her eyes catch sight of the time on the mantle-clock and she is pushing him out the door. 

.

Their first battle as teammates is nothing like what Lightning had envisioned.

When it comes to combat they share similar fighting styles, with a reliance on maneuverability and precision strikes, and boast matching unblemished track records (no losses since that mutual day one K.O. courtesy of each other). But never in her wildest dreams would she have guessed that the two of them together would be this – _pure_ _resonance_.

Of course, she also has to give due credit to WOL, as the sturdy centre whom they relied on to hold the front, while they swung in from the wings like the two arms of a boxer, one striking with quick jabs and sharp hooks, while the other delivered the knockout punch.

The townsquare of Alexandria served as the stage for the final bout of the day. It has a charming ambience, though the cluttered terrain made it harder to employ the boxer tactic that had worked so well for them before. She sees the paladin being pushed back, cornered into an alley.

“Noctis, sword!” She calls urgently, still a little unnerved by the battle telepathy system, even after being here for over a fortnight.

His engineblade materialises in a burst of crystal fragments, offering itself to her by the hilt as if they were friendly acquaintances, and it hadn’t been trying to stick its pointy end into her in every one of their previous encounters. She is more than a little surprised that he is willing to let her wield his favourite sword, even if just for a brief instant; but perhaps it’s more of a knee-jerk reflex that he hadn’t put much serious thought into.

She grasps the hilt across her palm, winding up and then launching her arm and body forward.

Thankfully, her aim isn’t too far off. The sword flies through the air in a straight trajectory. Noctis warps after it, appearing by WOL’s side a half-second later, in an assisted variant of his unique warp-strike attack. It’s a handy ability, she has to admit. 

He blinks back in next to her amidst a shower of sparks, his back bumping lightly against hers. They adopt mirrored stances, crossing swords for the first time as allies, and using their combined strength to knock back a meteor blast that would surely have blown a crater in the ground where they stood.

“Break a leg!” He calls, charging off into the fray.

She follows suit, darting after the nearest target in sight. Her foe beats a retreat up the bell tower in the middle of the public square. The ensuing cat-and-mouse chase takes them higher and higher up the rungs of the oblong structure. She has to be a good twenty stories up when she finally catches her opponent with a heavy smite. He hacks back, missing her but taking out a section of the tower instead. The massive tower begins listing to one side with a groan, an echo of her own inner sentiments. Then all at once the support beams give out, sending them plummeting to the ground.

What goes up...must come down.

Lightning considers her predicament. A well-timed Aeroga will probably be enough to break her fall, saving her from becoming a splat on the pavement, but the landing is still gonna be far from pretty.

She thinks of broken bones as the world rushes up to meet her. Wouldn’t be the first time she has broken a leg either. Thanks to her memories going AWOL she can’t quite say how or when it happened, but the physical proof – a seven-inch long scar that runs up the front of her right shin, all calloused and keloid-y – is evidence enough. She isn’t too bothered by the fact that she is one of those ugly scarers; although there has to be a metaphor in there somewhere.

.

Noctis hears the crumbling of the spire before he sees it.

Through the cloud of dust that rains down from the sky, he catches a glimpse of a crimson cape and the glint of a gunblade.

That tenacious roommate of his has proven herself time and again to have the presence of mind to think quickly on her feet when in a tight spot. So he really doesn’t know what compels him to rush to her aid. But the next thing he knows, he’s twenty feet up in the air and catching her in his arms.

It’s not quite intimate, but close enough. He inhales the metallic smell of blood intermingling with the sweet fragrance of roses, a scent that he will forever associate with her from this moment forth. He can feel the flicker of muscles on her back; hear her sharp intake of breath.

Once they have their feet back on solid ground he turns to regard her with a probing stare, wondering what he would find on her face. A soft blush like Terra? Or perhaps an embarrassed flush at the indignity of having to be rescued? Cerulean irises that meet black obsidians betray nothing; the first time he has had their full undivided attention, a brief moment in time that felt like an eternity. Then, the barest incline of her neck, the motion so subtle that he would have dismissed it if not for the soft dulcet echo in his head – “thanks”.

Later, he would remember this as the moment their relationship truly began. The curious chemical reaction that is the meeting of two minds, simultaneously processing the other; each aware that for this infinitesimal instant, they were the centre of each others’ inner and outer worlds; each realising that after this day they may never be the same again.

 

.

_Lightning is a beautiful thing to behold; and so is the night. But lightning in the night sky – it’s something else._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter preview: You are also a cursed warrior (two unlikely people having a melancholic conversation and sharing a moment of empathy)


	4. You are also a cursed warrior

Chapter 4: You are also a cursed warrior

 

Lightning had thought herself mentally prepared for what was to come. But the real horror is worse than anything she could have ever imagined.

The crimson moon bleeding red as it fell from the sky, the massive sphere cracking open like a broken shell. And from within it came the screams of terror, every note piercing straight into her heart.

The legends spoke of Armageddon, was that what she had seen in the dream?

Was she...responsible for this?

From outside her bedroom window, Dissidia’s night sky shimmers with stars, the hanging moon glowing placidly amongst them, as if it had all been just a bad dream – it was and it wasn’t.

It’s a full moon tonight. She stretches her arm out towards it, fingers forming a ring around the circle of light; then crushing it in her palm.

.

He had sought her out after the day’s end; conveying his intent with intense preternatural green eyes and a sharp flick of the argentite-silver katana at his side. Wordlessly, she follows him into a clearing a little ways off, nestled in the shelter of a regiment of pinewood trees, out of sight from prying eyes.

They assume positions at opposite sides. She brings her hands together, inclining her head forward in a traditional bow, feeling compelled to do so out of respect for the magnificent weapon she is about to trade deadly blows with. 

The katana pulses and shimmers. Its silver-haired master soothes it softly before speaking. Though his gaze remains fixed on his sword, she knows the words are meant for her.

“Don’t let me down.”

If her strikes were like lightning, lithe powerful shocks delivered with blitzkrieg speed and unpredictability; then his had to be water, fluid and _effortless_ , each motion as light as any one of the feathers from the single matte wing on his back, as if he exerted a telepathic control over his blade, wielding it like it was an extension of himself. And yet every cut and thrust was dealt with mechanical control and lethal precision – a literal marksman with a sword.

Through the dance of swords, she catches sight of the smirk playing on his lips. Not sadistic or predatory or mocking, but with unmistakable relished pleasure; as if the duet between their blades was pure music to his ears, and this ordinary sparring session was sating a desire that he had been craving for the longest time. This wasn’t so much about testing her mettle as coveting the chance to unleash his full skill and supremacy as a master swordsman, holding nothing back for once.

.

The duel ends with first blood, the barest nick on her cheek from the point of his sword.  

The long trek back to the warriors’ settlement is quiet save for the sound of two sets of footsteps; both of them lost in their own thoughts.

“I haven’t felt this way in a while.” His low murmur breaks the silence.

“Challenged?”

“Alive.” He corrects her. “ _Catharsis_.”

“But it does make me wonder how it would feel like to crave through your soft flesh. To run my blade straight through your spine; or to sever your sword arm cleanly from your shoulder."

She raises an eyebrow wryly. “Throwing down the gauntlet? Or should I be taking that as a compliment?”

“Both.” His answering smile has a diabolical edge to it.

“Tch. Glib bastard.”

He inclines his head to the side, regarding her with a sideways glance, like she is a curious bug.

“What?” She frowns.

“I know that everyone here has had a hand either in instigating the destruction of their world or saving it from annihilation. Evidently Cosmos judges the worth of her _chosens_ by their battle-prowess, deficiencies in morality and sanity notwithstanding.”

“Personally I have no doubt where I fall in; memory-corruption be damned. But what I’m having trouble deciphering is – which side were _you_ on?” His emerald eyes are boring into hers, piercing into her soul.

She draws a deep breath, releasing it slowly.

“Both.” It’s the only answer her heart will accept.

“Did you?” Now it’s his turn to raise an eyebrow at her question.

“Succeed?”

A derisive scoff. “No, I am afraid my plans for world destruction were thoroughly foiled.” His deep baritone voice maintains a neutral tone. She doesn’t detect the bite of bitterness, on the contrary, the barest hint of relief.

“Did _you_?” She looks away with a grimace. Should have expected that he would throw the question back at her. The question she so desperately wants the answer to.

“I...don’t know.” She whispers, then winces visibly. Even to her own ears, it sounds like a cop-out. The answer had been there right from the start; it couldn’t have been more obvious if it had walked right up and punched her in the face. _Lightning, it flashes bright then fades away...it can’t protect, only destroys._ Whether it’s success at destroying her world or the failure to save it, at the very least she’s got mass murder on her C.V.

She opts for honesty, because that’s what he has afforded her, without any obligation to. And frankly, the secrecy and silence has been as bad as the knowing-and-not-knowing, like a parasite, slowly eating her up from the inside.

“For a while there when we were sparring, I forgot about it – that nagging feeling. That feeling that you know you screwed up, you hurt others, and you are desperate to make it right; but you can’t. Even without knowing what the past is, I know that it can’t be changed. These feelings, these regrets...I’ll have to live with them forever.”

“I suppose we should be thankful for Cosmos’ little stunt then?” Seph muses, with an undercurrent of cynicism in his voice. “Although the feeling of being manipulated and used does leave a bitter aftertaste.”

“Do you think that it will ever be enough? What we are doing now, what we do tomorrow and all the tomorrows after...will it ever make up for _what_ _we have_ _done_?”

He mulls over her question.

“In my dreams I see her. Her visage is obscured but she’s wearing a red dress. She professes forgiveness, to me. I accept it, but for her sake, not mine. Imparting forgiveness is a gift, given by the victim to themselves. Forgiveness and the closure that comes with it, they are only for _them_. The guilty will never forgive themselves, nor should they.”

“Regret is for the things not done; for battles lost to fear before they even began. I never had those. If there is anything I have, its shame.”

Shame – a single word that encompasses all of her conflicting feelings, although it hurt so much to admit. “I know. I feel the same way.” The words feel like a knife in her throat but she forces herself to say them, as much for his ears as her own.

There is a flash of surprise on his face, suppressed with a sneer. “Empathizing with a sociopath? Maybe you really are damned after all.”

“You’re not a sociopath.” She turns to look him in the eye. “The very fact that you can talk about this proves you’re not. Whatever you did, your world has decided the sentence, and dealt the punishment. It’s not my place to judge.”

“You know _nothing_ about what I am, what I have done, or _what I’ve been through_. So don’t presume to know what I feel or don’t feel.” The words are spoken in a hiss, the first crack in his impassive countenance.

She closes her eyes, inhaling a deep breath. In the distance, the changing winds usher in puffy nimbus clouds with dark underbellies, and the scent of rain. When she speaks, her voice is barely stronger than the breeze, caught in a memory from a distant past.

“Pain.”

“What?”

“The pain – it hurt too much. I couldn’t bear it.”

“It made me rage, curse, lash out. I blamed everyone for what I was suffering. I needed to, if only to discharge even a little of that excruciating hurt.” 

A fierce draft had descended upon them, stirring stray strands of her hair into little pink whips that lash about her face. There is a stinging sensation in her eyes that is easier to blame on the wind. She doesn’t look away.

Within minutes, the dark clouds have opened up. The rain came slowly at first, so she could feel the cold of each individual drop and the path it took down her face. Then all at once it fell in great sheets and there was nowhere to hide.

The pitter-patter of raindrops is interrupted by a rustle of feathers as Seph unfurls his wing above her head with a grunt. It encircles her almost fully, the thick curtain of dark feathers hanging down like a canopy.

“You might struggle in vain, but you don’t struggle alone. There is a certain comfort in knowing that damned as we are, we can still find the capacity for empathy.”

His voice is deep and calm, a soothing salve.

As the storm raged on, around and within.

.

Noctis emerges from a nice long shower, to find a pink-haired drowned rat dripping puddles all over the hardboard floor of their home. She reaches past him, snagging a towel off the rack and proceeding to undress to her undergarments and towel off.

Granted, there’s nothing seductive or sexual about her manner or intent, but any grown man would have been hard-pressed to remain impervious to the way her wet sports bra and undies clung tightly to her skin, and how the beads of water highlighted her curves as they dripped down her tone body.

He spins around hastily, embarrassment flooding his face. What is with this woman? Did she not see herself as a lady? Or did she not see him as a man? The last thought sends another hot flare to his cheeks.

He stomps out of the room, plopping down on the mini-couch in the main hall, half aware of light footsteps trailing after him.

“You’re embarrassed?” There is a note of confusion in her voice, and her head is tilted to one side quizzically. It strikes him that this is probably the most emotion she has shown since their arrival here, something other than a frown or scowl or just general nonchalance.

“ _You’re_ not?” He fires back.   

She scoffs. “It’s not like I was naked, and even if I was there’s nothing to look at. Bedsides, you’re a gentleman by upbringing. You wouldn’t look.”

“And you’re good at reading people?”

“Good enough to detect an undercurrent of sarcasm there.”

“Well, let’s hear it then. Go on. _Read me_.” He makes himself comfortable on the couch, reclining back and crossing an ankle over a knee, slipping easily into a front of haughtiness.

An exasperated sigh leaves her lips as she crosses her arms over the towel wrapped around her chest.

“You’re royalty.” She states blankly, firing off the first shot.

“You carry yourself with a self-assured authority that only the noblest birthright can afford. You have refined manners and etiquette, and more poise than most young man your age can ever hope to master in their entire lifetimes. But I don’t mistake that poise for maturity – I’ll reserve that judgement for now, but your tendencies to bouts of childish tantrums like the one you’re having right now aren’t doing you any favours.”

“You’ve been sheltered your whole life, as any royal heir would be. Perhaps even more so after an accident in your childhood left you with a limp you try to hide behind that cocky swagger.”

“You’re not afraid to stake your claim or issue a challenge. As I recall, your first words to me were to that exact effect. Yet you are shy around a woman’s body, even one as plain as mine. That tells me you’ve never had an intimate relationship before; maybe a crush, but never a lover.”

“But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt – you may be a cocky little brat but you aren’t spoilt. You don’t dress ostentatiously; your boots are made of the finest leather, but they are well-worn. You’ve never looked at anyone here like they’re below your station, and you look out for your teammates in combat. That I can respect.”

“From your fight style, you’ve had many teachers, all masters of their craft devoted to your training. You wield the diverse weapons in your arsenal with equal aptitude but you lack the finesse for any. Your tactics are creative and you’re tenacious, but you’re overly reliant on your magic. If the two of us ever got into a hand-to-hand brawl, I’d have no qualms delivering a _royal_ ass-kicking to your perfectly-formed arse.”

The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk. “You noticed?”

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

He uncrosses his legs, making a deliberate show of raking his eyes over her, wanting to see the imperturbable woman squirm under his intentional leering.

“My turn.” Two can play this game.

“ _Your_ combat is built around versatility, your need to stay in control of the situation no matter who your opponent or your teammates may be; an attest to your need to be self-reliant – a veritable army of one.”

“And you _are_ a soldier aren’t you? You found comfort in the rigors and routines of military, self-discipline and fortitude as a means of overcoming destructive emotions.”

“Which means you were that angry rebel-child with the tragic past, who had to learn how to get back up and never depend on anyone, who lost her innocence and gained independence far too soon. You needed tough and so you became that. I’m guessing... _orphan_?”

That gets a reaction out of her, a flash of surprise she isn’t fast enough to suppress. Emboldened by that, he forges on.

“Seeing as we hardly know each other, I wouldn’t go so far as to call you cold-hearted _bitch_.” He drawls, eliciting a sardonic scoff from her.  

“You’re reticent by nature; I’m guessing you just let your fists do the talking when needed. And like all orphans you had trouble with trust and affection, so you focused on achievements and working hard instead. You think that showing emotions is a sign of weakness. ‘Control your emotions or they will control you’, and all that spew.”

“But this _prickly_ demeanour is deliberate. It makes you difficult to approach, keeps others at arm’s length. You think the best way to guard your heart is to pretend you don't have one.”

“So was I close? You’re not as subtle as you think, soldier gir-.”

“ _I was a soldier._ ” She cuts in, and then bites down on her lower lip as if regretting the uncharacteristic outburst.  

Was? He replays the past few days in his head. They had spent the most time together, on and off the battlefield. If she had an intrusion, surely he would have noticed? But then again, she was good at keeping a poker face, at playing her cards close to her chest.

 _Or maybe...maybe it’s yourself you can’t trust._ Your facade of aloofness merely an act to hide your uncertainty, fear, and confusion with your current situation.

_You’re angry at yourself, but you don’t know why._

_And why does that resonate so strongly with me?_

 

.

_The bad news is, your choices and intentions, some people and places, those nights spent awake, and all you’ve done, can lead you to the bottom of the pit. The good news is, this wouldn’t be the first time that someone’s crawled, tooth and nail, out of hell._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Casino Royale tribute. So much love for that movie. Best Bond movie bar none. 
> 
> On another note, I never played FFVII (I was young when it came out). But I played Crisis Core, so my impression of Sephiroth is probably drastically different from the average FF fan.
> 
> Have I mentioned that I love Casino Royale?


	5. Meet the old boss, same as the new boss

Chapter 5: Meet the old boss, same as the new boss

 

The moving images filtered in and out in burst-like flashes. A cinematic experience, except this movie was rough and disjointed like an amateurly edited montage, abruptly jumping from one scene to the next without any order or transition. A series of memories? Or perhaps a memory of a dream? A memory of a dream of memories?

Someone _really_ enjoyed yanking her chain.

In the dream, the woman with pink hair cleaved a path through swathes of soldiers. The mechanical headgear they wore rendered them faceless, a literal army of clones. It made them easier to cut down; just targets standing in her way. Again and again, her gunblade was relentless and merciless in its execution. How many had she...?

Chaos came in wispy tendrils, clawing at her back, coiling around her wrists and neck, binding, suffocating. “Let go!” She hears herself shout. It doesn’t; but she does, her grip on the earth slipping through raking fingers. She allows herself to fall, dragged, into the bottomless depths.

Lightning awakens from her fitful sleep with a start, jack-knifing up in bed, breath coming in between rapid pants and gasps. Those visions, they had felt so real; more like flashbacks than dreams or memories – perceived through the five senses, as though she had been physically transported back in time to relive them.

She groans in frustration, tired of all this cryptic-ness and drama.

She wants _answers_ damnit, not more questions.

.

He’s smiling.

He doesn’t smile often, so this has her interest piqued a little.

As far as Lightning can tell, Noctis has three smiles. The cocky ‘I’ll-take-on-anyone’ smile of a headstrong royal-ass. The one she refers to as the ‘princely-mask’ i.e. an inordinately-pleasant and unduly-polite smile that fails to reach his eyes. And this one here that he is currently offering to Cecil, as the older man clasps a hand on his younger teammate’s shoulder.

“That was a hell of a fight, Noct!” She hears the paladin say.

There is so much behind that smile – a simple gesture amongst comrades that had the power to instil strength, deepen resolve, and heal weariness and exhaustion; but most of all, it was a smile that read ‘we’re in this together, and for that I’m grateful’. He must have had a group of loyal and true companions back home, she surmises. Brothers-in-arms that would have followed him through hell and back, and he in turn trusted them with his life, and relied on the camaraderie they shared to get through the inevitable hard days and dark nights.

Perhaps there is a maturity to him after all, she concedes, casting another pensive glance over at the boy in question.

His face is angled up to the sky, his eyes closed in reminiscence – the look of someone deep in the throes of memory. She knows that he deserves his privacy, and she tries to will herself to look away. Then all of a sudden his eyes are open again and starring straight at her, as if he had some sixth sense that told him he was being watched. And just like that the roles of observer and observee are swiftly reversed.

No matter how much coolness she puts into her gaze, he doesn’t flinch or avert his eyes. Instead he closes the distance between them, stopping right in front of her; so close that she can see the tiny lines on his furrowed brow as he peers into her eyes, searching for something there but coming up empty. The intense scrutiny is unnerving, and if it wasn’t for her stubborn pride she would have looked away first, or at the very least back-pedalled a few steps.

“It’s like...you’ve done this before.” His tone is part accusatory and part uncomprehending, but he is choosing his words carefully. “You don’t fight like the others. You stride into battle like something automatic, ingrained; that which can only come from doing something every day, day after day, without respite or reward. Like this is _what you_ _do_.”

This time she does drop her gaze. Because as much as she wants to deny it, he’s right.

The thrill of a worthy opponent, the tension from an evenly matched fight, the celebration of a hard-fought victory. Everything that should define a warrior. Everything she should feel but doesn’t. Or couldn’t? It’s almost like part of her emotions is on lockdown together with her memories.

And then there were the incomprehensible feelings of familiarity with this whole situation. _Like you’ve done this before_ – somehow he had hit the nail on the head with that. But what kind of person was she that fighting an unwinnable war with the very fate of the world at stake felt _familiar_?

She shakes her head.  No, that was just crazy. No one could do something like that. The burden would have been soul-crushing, the weight of it too much for one person to shoulder.

_It’s not a question of can or can’t. There are some things in life you just do._

Was that a memory? A subconscious thought? Or had she spoken out loud, the words leaving her mouth before her mind could process them?

The look on his face is unreadable.

She turns away, catching sight of her reflection in the clear waters of a small fountain. A warrior’s eyes give away their agency. In her eyes – blue embers, softly kindling – there is no trace of desire; just resolute will, dutifully firm and unwavering.

Who are you? Her lips move but the words are not spoken. The girl in the water mimics the action, mirroring the words back to her – who are _you_?

Both their faces are marred with dirt and sweat. She rubs at the stains, gauntlet covered fists only managing to smear them around more and she ends up giving up with a sigh.

A light tug on her elbow draws her back around. He doesn’t say anything as he detaches his fingers from her arm, bringing them up to make soft brushing strokes on her cheeks, gently wiping off the worse of the grime. Caught entirely by surprise, she is slow to react, only wincing slightly when he skims over the bruise forming under her right eye.

The sensation of human touch feels foreign though not repulsive. As if the only physical contacts she had known before this were the caresses of cold steel and hard knuckles. Had anyone ever done this for her before? And why was she letting him do this now? She wonders, more than a little surprise that she hadn’t instinctually decked him in the face.

“I...I erm...” She croaks. Damn it, could she be any more inarticulate? 

“It’s okay.”

Somehow she senses the deeper meaning behind the paltry two words.

_This boy is not as simple as he appears._

In the gathering darkness, he leads the way home. She trails behind, dragging her feet; the heaviness of her heart weighing down her steps. She can’t help touching a hand to her cheek, conscious of the lingering warmth. The journey home today feels twice as long.

But for one night, she sleeps without fear of her demons.  

_._

The reprieve is short-lived.

Another memory had come as she slept underneath last night’s half moon.

The knight brandished her blade against her enemy, an abomination that was half-human and half-beast, half-mortal and half-immortal. What did that make her then, it begged the question. Around them two seas of monster armies clashed, as war raged from the shorelines to the gates of the temple, where a wounded goddess slept.

The nights that follow bring constant tidings.

Most of her memories are now coming from that place. _Valhalla_. It makes sense. In a place where time ceased to flow and thus held no meaning, it was useless to ponder how long she had been there. But a smart wager would be – a hell lot longer than her twenty one years spent in the mundane world. Each scene was different from the others yet they played out like an endless loop.

And then there were the moments of quiet lamentations, interspersed amongst scenes of the fighting.

_“Serah, can I ever make things right?”_

.

The puzzle, though not complete, is starting to take shape.

The first time she was given a choice – commit genocide or spend eternity as a soul-less husk. She chose neither; equal parts ignorant and arrogant to think that there would be a third option.

Then she was forced by her own will to live in a timeless existence, with only the pain of a thousand regrets for company. And the taunting of a grief-stricken seeress-guardian-turned-world-destroyer; why was it only now that she could see the torment in his eyes that drove him to battle.

She understands why her past self had made the decision to stay and fight.

“This guilt is on me; this responsibility mine alone to bear. Though the battle may be endless, I will never give up. Though the war cannot be won, I will never surrender. _This is my promise, and my penance._ ” The knight in Valhalla had vowed.

Lightning had never professed herself to be the honourable sort. But for the first time, she felt a small measure of pride in the choices her past self had made. What do you know? Maybe there is some hope for you after all.

Still, there were moments of weakness. As if a miniscule part of her still clung to the enticing hope of release. “ _Anything_. Please, I’ll give anything for this to end”, she can hear her heart plead, in stolen moments of grief and human-ness. “Why do you accept this fate? How is the sentence equal to the crime?” It cried. And like a traitor, it received only a harsh condemning silence.

She is a convict who has accepted her sentence – a lifetime of hard labour, with no deception on the possibility of parole. Except this was more than just one lifetime; it was ten thousand lifetimes, _and then more_. Etro was not a cruel goddess, but like any divine being she could not have understood the difference in the concept of eternity to gods and mortals, or to someone stuck somewhere in between.   

Lightning laughs bitterly. Funny how life works out, huh? The more things change the more they stay the same. Here she is, still serving a well-meaning but foolish goddess, still atoning for the mistakes she made in the past.

Perhaps this was my fate, all along.

Then the only question left is – _what do I make of it?_

.

Noctis’ search for his roommate leads him to the infirmary. Of course she would be here. Truth be told, she has been spending a lot more time in here as of late.

“Really should have thought to look here from the start, would have saved me a hell lot of time and effort.”

Since the last turn of the moon, there has been a conspicuous change in her entire outlook and attitude. She’s been pushing herself hard, too hard; almost to the point of being reckless. Engaging in twice as many fights, with little to no time for rest or recovery in between; her ability to flout the limits of human endurance – already a redoubtable force to begin with – now turned up to eleven.

He finds her sitting at the edge of a bed at the far end of the ward, half-leaning against the frame with her bare back towards him, struggling to wrap a roll of tape around her ribs. A discarded gown lay on the floor at the foot of the bed.

Even from where he stands, he can read the strain of her effort. A sudden spasm of muscles causes her to double over, body seizing up with pain. She drops the tape to the floor as she sags against the mattress. When her breath returns she counts slowly to ten in raspy wheezes, before pushing herself up for another go. Her slight frame is angled to the side so he can verify that she truly is naked from the waist up. His pulse quickens, her soft curves awakening the part of him that is primitively male.

But it is the chivalrous male that responds. He crosses the room in a few swift strides, picking the tape wrap off the floor.

His unexpected appearance brings a tinge of colour to her pale and clammy face, but he suspects that her embarrassment lay not in being caught half naked but in showing weakness. She doesn’t try to cover her state of undress. Instead she meets his gaze squarely, forcing herself back up straight, face steeling against the pain.

She holds out a hand to demand the tape back but recoils with a small hiss, eyes sparking with frustration and anguish. He takes the look of resignation as a silent concession of her need for assistance.

He tries to be quick, wanting to make this as painless as possible for both of them.

Her ribs are a mess of overlapping welts and swellings, a mosaic of purple-black on top of yellow-green. Large patches of scrapped-raw bleeding skin cover her left arm and flank courtesy of a rough skid across coarse gravel. Two of her fingers are crooked at weird angles. And that’s just what he can see on the surface. He suspects she is hiding some internal injuries, as lately she has been having random coughing fits that bring up fresh blood.

Beside her on the bed, her cor lies dull and spent. He knows that she always prioritises cauterising bleeding and healing deep lacerations that could become infected if left untreated.  

“Why are you doing this?”

She hangs her head, gnawing on a lower lip is busted and split open.

“We all know you’re strong. But even strong can break.” He presses a little harder on her broken ribs for emphasis, wanting to drive home his point. It draws the anticipated physical response – her entire body jerking away reflexively with a grunt and grimace, but her reply is firm.

“Then I have to be stronger.”

They lapse into silence as he treats the rest of her wounds. He is a little clumsy at it, realizing that he has probably never done this much in the past. If only the healing magic of their worlds could be replicated here too, but alas.

He does what he can to patch her up. She remains stoic, only turning away and biting into her shoulder when he pops her fingers back into place.

Her face is speckled with the usual post-battle dust and dirt. At his prompting, she wipes the wet wash cloth he hands her over it.  

Before his mind can register the intent, he reaches over to swipe his thumb over a spot on her cheek that she had missed. Even though it’s not his first time doing this, he is still caught off guard by how soft she feels, and how he can faintly feel the warmth radiating from her skin through his glove. Perhaps her harsh mannerisms gave the misleading impression that she would feel cold and hard, like a statue made of ice and steel.

While he is preoccupied with his thoughts, she jabs her arm with antibiotics but ignores the painkillers.

“Stubborn mule.” He mumbles under his breath as he snatches up the hospital gown from the floor and drapes it over willowy shoulders. It will have to do for now. Maybe once they get home he can find an oversized shirt of his that wouldn’t be too difficult for her to slip on. 

She nods her thanks, brushing close as she stands, moving the way people do when they are in pain but trying to hide it. Her hand grazes over his, and he has to fight the reflexive urge to grab it.

Instead, he secretly grabs the box of painkillers as they leave.

.

It was getting difficult to differentiate between the memories and the nightmares, or perhaps they were one and the same.

Lightning woke up disoriented, as anyone would be if they were abruptly roused from a deep slumber. Lurching out of bed, she takes a few stumbling steps in the dark before collapsing against a wall; confused, panicked and furious with herself. There’s no room for naps in Valhalla! She can feel angry tears prickling at her eyes. _You had one job, Lightning! One job!_

Her heart continues to pummel against her ribcage. She tastes her panic. Her breathing comes in ragged gasps and it feels like her lungs are on fire, as if the darkness has morphed into giant claws that are currently wrapped in a chokehold around her throat.

She has been trained to handle situations like this. First, think of a happy place, or a happy memory. No luck with that; it was like staring into a bottomless abyss.

Plan B then. She brings her knees up to her chest and hugs her arms around them. Deep pressure touch is supposed to produce a reflexive calming effect, a technique used on cattle in a squeeze-chute. She talks herself through the next few minutes: Breathe in deeply for four seconds. Hold your breath for another eight. Exhale slowly. Repeat from step one. Panic is an instinctive reflex that can be overcome.

The storm is over within minutes. Back in the present, there are no sounds of war or of the fighting; only the steady ebb and tide of breath coming from her sleeping roommate. It may have been the most peaceful and comforting sound she has ever heard. 

She watches the slow rise and fall of his chest until she finally drifts back to sleep.

 

.

_But if I have done this before, it feels different this time_

 


	6. Gentle flame

Chapter 6: Gentle flame

 

_Under the right circumstances, a single spark can start a fire._

.

 

Lightning pauses in mid-stride, having felt a sharp crack underneath her boot, like stepping on a piece of glass.

She hurriedly lifts her foot to inspect it, fearing that she might have stepped on one of those shell-carrying gastropods she often sees squiggling across her window plane leaving slimy trails in their wake. Instead she finds only the broken fragments of a crushed ice shard. 

She sighs in relief, letting out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding.

That’s when it catches her eye – a small feathered creature, lying motionless on the ground a few paces away.

Shifting nearer, she crouches down by the fallen bird, gently scooping it up in the palm of her hand. The closer inspection reveals a layer of frost covering its tiny wings and body, and its feet look near frozen solid. By all appearances it was dead, semi-stiff and ice-cold; a pitiful, macabre sight.

By now the sun had taken its leave from the sky, with only a crimson trail marking its passage, not unlike a splotch and smear of blood on a canvas. The nights in Dissidia can be bitingly cold, but even the lowest temperatures on record are far from the subzero conditions that would warrant concern for hazards such as frostbite or hypothermia. And yet deposits of white frost and icicles of ice lie scattered across the carpet of lush green grass, looking decidedly out of place in the meadow of Nemophila flowers.

There’s a familiar sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, as she recalls the events of the last battle. In an attempt to shake off a double team, she had thrown up a powerful Blizzarga. A slab of ice the size of a small iceberg erupted from the ground, only to be blown to smithereens by a retaliatory Ruinga. But she had anticipated that, following-up her first attack with a blast of Aeroga. The result is a hailstorm of ice-bullets, laying down a volley of suppressive fire like a submachine gunner, allowing her to make an un-harried getaway.

There is only one conclusion to be drawn here – the unfortunate creature must have been a collateral victim of her earlier ice attack. There’s a throbbing ache in her jaw from how tightly she is gritting it. Why was it that even unintentionally, her actions always ended up hurting others? It’s almost as if some higher power out there was intent on mocking her at every turn.

But how could a little chick have wandered aimlessly into the middle of a magical battlefield? It looked to be barely fledged. Where was its home and family?

It must have been taken by accident, she deduces. Carried along with one of them when they were brought here; ripped from its home and family, simply by being in the wrong place at the wrong time, just as it had been during the battle. It must have been so lost and scared.

Her hand feels numb, from the palm all the way up to her fingertips, the kind of numbness that only the bitter cold can bring. The icy fluff-ball it cradles can’t have weighed more than a soggy handkerchief; yet it feels so heavy. Her mind whirls with flickers and flashes of a distorted image – a young girl, hands clasped over her heart in a final and eternal wish, as she lies frozen in crystal stasis.

“No! Now isn’t the time for this!” Like a chastised child, the memory recedes obediently, and Lightning almost sobs with relief. Forcing that heart-rending apparition out of her mind, she focuses instead on the task at hand. She doesn’t know how far gone the chick is, but she refuses to give up without trying her damnest to revive it. She owes it that much.

Though it’s hardly her forte, she’s a decent enough white mage. So it is a pity she can’t access any of her healing magic here in this world. But there are other elements at her disposal, and with any luck all this little one needed was a little _warmth_.

She steadies her breathing, closes her eyes, curls the fingers of her free hand over her heart, and calls on her magic.

_Please..._

.

The day’s end sees Cosmos’ battered-and-bruised warriors dispersing from _the grounds_ , making their way back to their respective quarters for some rest and retrospection. Weapons are hoisted over shoulders, half-hearted farewells and ‘see you tomorrows’ are mumbled.

Noctis hangs back, looking around for his wayward roommate. He notices her straying away from the group, her attention drawn to something on the ground. With a sigh, he heads over to retrieve her.

Though he makes no effort to hide the crunch of his boots, she doesn’t give any indication that she has heard his approach, a stark contrast to her usual hyper-vigilant self. 

“Lightning?” He calls softly, not wanting to startle her.

She is kneeling on the wet grass, cradling what looks like a half-frozen baby bird in her palm, as the gentlest of flames dance on her wrist.

_“Remember Noctis, fire comes from the heart.”_

The words spring suddenly to mind, surfacing from the hidden recesses of his memory, and resonating in his head like a reverberating echo. Accompanied by a vision of a small boy – unmistakably himself – frowning up at the grizzled and greying man who had spoken them. The older man chuckles, lips lifting into a fond smile that deepens the lines on his face. “Son, you’ll understand in time.”

“Dad?” He surges forward, hands grasping wildly at the air reaching for the fading mirage of his father. “Dad, don’t go!”

His vision is clearing from the periphery in, like an evaporating pool of water. His father’s smile is the last to fade. When the mist clears, it’s no longer his father that he’s seeing; but _her._ Her _fire_. Her _heart_. There is a warm and fuzzy feeling in his chest, and it’s not just from seeing his father again.

“You were right, Dad. I don’t know if I understood it before, but I do now.”

It was like seeing a hidden side of her for the first time; seeing _her_ for the first time. Underneath all that cold armour and frosty exterior, layers of toughness and facade of indifference, was a gentle heart.

The minutes pass at an agonizing crawl, the inert body in her hand showing no signs of life though the worst of the frost had melted off of it by now. Then, a twitch of legs, followed a few seconds later by another, then another. A little gasp escapes her lips.

The chick’s twitching soon gives way to outright shivering that looks like it is having a mini-convulsion. It chirps weakly, still lacking the strength to stand.

“It’s okay little one. I’ll help you.” He hears her whisper.

She finds a small ice shard on the ground, melting it over the flames on her wrist. Carefully, she adjusts her hold on the chick so she can gently pry its beak open, using her other hand to feed it the drops of warmed liquid as they dribble down a finger. 

The simple tactic works wonder. It’s on its feet within minutes, giving a couple experimental flaps of its wings as it wobbles back and forth, still unsteady but chirping loudly. Then it turns to look at her and freezes, trembling again but not from cold. 

It gives a sharp peck at her hand, drawing blood. She lets out a little squeak, releasing her hold on it, probably more from surprise than actual pain.

Once free, the chick scurries away as fast as its little legs can carry, and he thanks his quick reflexes (and handy teleportation) that he manages to zip over and snatch it up in one fell swoop. It doesn’t make an effort to escape, somehow viewing him as more friend than foe. It hopes up onto his shoulder, flitting about fretfully and chirping into his ear. He strokes the tawny feathers softy, doing his best to reassure it.

When he looks back, she is still staring down at the broken skin on her palm where the chick had nipped it. Blue embers that he has become well acquainted with glance up, but any surprise at seeing him is drowned out by the look of anguish.

“Hey...don’t be upset.” He tries to placate her. “I’m sure it didn’t mean to hurt you. It was just scared and probably thought you were the one that attacked it.”

Her shoulders slump. “I don’t blame it. It _was_ my careless attack that nearly killed it in the first place.”

“Don’t be silly. You can’t blame yourself for something you didn’t know. There’s no way anyone could have spotted a little chick in the heat of battle.” He reaches up to give his new friend an affectionate pat on the head. “Sorry buddy, but you’re kinda tiny and really easy to miss.”

Her expression softens a little at his lighthearted joke, and Nocits is seized by the sudden impulse to reach out and pat her on the head as well. But he holds back, sensing that any sudden movements now may cause her to bolt instead. He has seen her in vulnerable moments before, but this feels different. Though the mask of composure is wrenched back onto her face, he can perceive its fragility, about to crack.

She remains quiet and still, equally unsure of what to do.

For a long minute, silence reigns. Even the chick has stopped it’s chirping. Finally, it’s her voice that breaks the deadlock.

“Cover your ears.”

What? Did he hear her wrong?

“Cover your ears,” she repeats. The imploring look in her eyes makes him comply to the odd request.

Satisfied, she shifts her gaze down to his shoulder and the little chick perched on it. Her hand hovers uncertainly in the air between them.

She presses a step closer. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s my fault. Forgive me. Please.”

Though he can hear every word through the hands covering his ears, he does his best to pretend not to. It’s a little harder to ignore the prickling in his chest.

Occupied with keeping up the act, he is not the least bit prepared for what happens next. Having made her peace, Lightning now turns back to him with a frown and an undecipherable look in her eyes. Then she sets her jaw, grasps his hands around the wrists, pulling them away from his ears.

“I’m sorry Noctis...for being cold and aloof to you. You’re out here all alone too, away from the warmth of home and your family and friends. You’re probably just as lost and confused as I am. Yet I...I was...too caught up in myself to spare a thought for your feelings. I haven’t been fair to you.”

The prickling sensation now feels like a thousand needles stabbing his heart.

“Let’s start over.” He suggests, gently cutting her off.

“What do you mean?”  

“I mean, let’s try this again.” He sticks out his hand.

“Hi, I’m Noctis. Friends call me Noct.”

“Lightning. Friends call me Light, I guess.”

“Light.”

“Noct.”

The hand grasping his proffered one is warm; its grip strong and firm. She says his name with her usual stoic seriousness, but the blue eyes are locked onto his are wide and earnest. He has never heard his nickname spoken in such a formal way before, though he can’t help but find it cute and endearing.

A loud “Kweh! Kweh!” draws their attention back to the instigator of this entire incident, now happily perched atop his head and nuzzling into his hair, tweeting contentedly.

Light tilts her head to the side. “Well...it does look like a nest.” She remarks dryly, drawing a “Kweh!” of agreement, and a shared laugh between them.

“Noct...”

“Yea, Light?”

“Let’s go home.”

.

“There are chocobos in your world too?”

Noctis gratefully accepts the extra blanket Light hands him as they settled in for the night. Between their beds, the chocobo chick is nestled in a makeshift cocoon made out of a coffee cup and a pair of knitted woollen socks.   

The enthused tone of her voice leads him to deduce that she is as big a softie for the majestic and fleet-footed birds as he is, although she would never admit it out loud.

Together they had decided that the best thing they could do for the lost chick is to take it to the goddess’ temple at the break of dawn and beseech the crystal to return it to its home, which naturally led them to the current dilemma of trying to figure out which world it had even come from.

“Cosmos will know where to send it back to.” He reassures her, receiving a soft hum of assent in return.

 

.

_Tale as old as time, True as it can be_

_Barely even friends, Then somebody bends_

_Unexpectedly_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Book 1. 
> 
> It's purely coincidence that both the opening and ending quotes are from Disney movies, LOL.
> 
> Side note, I could never kill a chocobo (all main characters are fair game though).


	7. If I lay here

Chapter 7:  If I lay here

 

It becomes their little ritual – the simple act of lying awake in bed at night and just _talking_. There’s something to be said about two people just listening to the sound of each other’s voices in the dark. It makes him wonder if this is what it feels like for nocturnal birds, faithfully calling into the pitch black night, knowing that through the darkness an answer will come.

It started tentatively in the beginning, something more akin to idle chatter than any meaningful exchange. It’s a small consolation to discover that she is just as dreadful at making any kind of small talk as he is. After all, friendship always starts from having something in common, right? As it turns out, a couple nights spent bonding over their mutual ineloquence was all it took to break the ice. Things have been going swimmingly since – their nightly dialogues ranging from observations and commentaries on the day’s battles, to more random ‘insights of life’ like why pancakes taste better when they are fluffy; anything and everything really.

Well, not quite _everything_. He wants to know more about her past, or at least what she remembers of it. She’s opening up, little by little, like a rusty window creaking on its hinges with every push, offering small anecdotes of biography and back-story to appease his curiosity. So far he's managed to find out that she comes from a town called Bodhum, an idyllic coast-hugged isle; and that she enlisted with the local peace-keeping force after leaving highschool, the same year her parents passed and she assumed guardianship of her younger sister. It went a long way to explaining a thing or two about her – like that homesick look she got in her eyes whenever their battles took place over the golden sands and shallow shores of Spira’s beaches. He recalls his brash analysis of her from way back. The conclusions he had drawn then couldn’t have been closer yet further from the truth.

But at the same time, she’s hiding and holding back. What she will or won’t reveal about her past, he knows it’s not just dictated by unaccounted for gaps in memory. Patience Noct, he reminds himself, as his mind conjures up another one of those ‘ _what-would-dad-say_?’ moments.

“Where are you rushing to, son?” His old man asks with a fond smile and small shake of his head. “No matter how much the puppy yips and paws, it cannot make the tortoise move any faster. Do you know what that means?” A weathered hand reaches over to ruffle his hair and he chuckles despite himself. Trust dad to always do or say the weirdest things that somehow never fail to make him smile, even when they are worlds apart. “Yes, pops. It means that if you want to be friends with someone you got to be willing to go at their pace. The tortoise may be slow but it is moving as fast as it can.”

Memories have been coming back to him too, starting from a time in his youth spent under the watchful eyes of his father’s guards and advisors. As a boy, he had gone through a difficult phase where he was given to irrational fears and worries, many of them to do with the night – creating monsters out of shadows, being harangued by nightmares of enemies coming to destroy his home. But worst of all was the undue apprehension that one day the veil of darkness would fall and never lift, consuming all light in the world. It’s a spectre that only a child’s mind could concoct, except back then it had felt like a premonition, a sombre warning. He takes the warning to heart, though right now his feelings about the night couldn’t have been more different.

It was hard at first, he’ll admit. The days in Dissidia may be gruelling, but the nights are no less punishing; at times colder and longer still than the heart of winter in Insomnia. And for a little prince caught outside of his comfort zone, besieged from the get-go by thoughts of missing home (back when he couldn’t even remember where home was!), it could have been pure misery.

Despite that he had never felt truly alone. Yes, for the most part Light had pretended not to notice his existence, but he was not obtuse enough to not notice the little things she did without so much as a word – an extra blanket, neatly folded, set aside on his bed whenever the skies were cloudless, a steaming mug of hot-cocoa, labelled for good measure with the letter ‘N’, mysteriously appearing at his bedside on the nights he was feeling particularly forlorn. Once he had woken up at a quarter past three in the morning to take a leak, surprised to find the woodstove still crackling with timber, which ordinarily should have burnt out hours ago. And all that was before she had apologised for ‘not sparing a thought for his feelings’.

And now these cold nights have become something to look forward to, like having a home to return to at the end of each long day. His only gripe being that no matter how hard he tries, he is always the first to succumb to slumber. As if his body has put a time limit of how long he is allowed to lie in bed and _not_ sleep.

“Don’t fight it”, Light always tells him, as he feels his eyelids getting heavier and heavier until at last he is pulled into oblivion. The last thing he hears every night, as a final lull to sleep, is a soft “goodnight Noct”. Two words that fill him with more warmth than any amount of hot cocoa ever could.  

Lying in bed tonight, there is a crazy thought that creeps into his head: maybe being stuck here forever wouldn’t be so bad, if this were the last thing he hears every night. There is a tense silence, followed by the sound of her taking a measured breath, and he realises that he must have blurted the notion out loud. She hums lowly, a verbal tick that they have both taken up to fill the awkward pauses in conversation when words aren’t forthcoming. It’s a neat little trick, telepathing to the other that they are still there with them, just not quite sure how to reply. Honestly, he doesn’t know who picked it up from whom.

Before he can express regret for his hasty utterance, he feels it – the waves of sleep, lapping at his feet as he dips his toes in, then all of a sudden it washes over him like a tsunami. He stands no chance.

“Twas just a joke. Don’t mind, k?” He slurs out, barely able to string the words together in sleep-induced delirium. Even then they came out as a bunch of garbled sounds. 

Her reply is softy spoken, almost to herself. Maybe she assumed that he had already fallen asleep.

“Do you know the meaning of forever?” 

He barely registers the soft rustling of sheets, the click as she resets the alarm clock on the bedside table.

_“Goodnight, Noct.”_

.

Lightning has mixed feelings about the night.

She bites down on her lip to stop the scream, as the world around her lurches and spins for a few drawn-out seconds. The night terrors have returned with a vengeance. Their M.O. is unchanged – always waiting a couple of hours into her sleep, sufficient time to reach the soundest and deepest depths, before ripping her out violently without warning. The abrupt rousal leaves her disoriented, often mistakenly thinking that she was back in Valhalla, confusion rapidly giving way to panic at the thought of what might have happened while she was out cold.

But by now she has had sufficient practice on how to deal.

“Don’t fight it, face the panic head on.” She murmurs, tongue lapping over something sticky and metallic. Some things if given free reign, will burn themselves out like a flash fire.

She closes her eyes, finding even the soft glow of moonlight to be harsh and glaring. Ignoring the roaring in her ears like a freight train thundering by, she focuses instead on the almost imperceptible sound of _his_ breathing. Heightened senses pick up the vibrations of steady breaths, deep inhales alternating with soft sighs, like someone inhaling the scent of the sweetest rose. She can’t help but wonder what is it he is dreaming of that can produce such a contented sound. Whatever it is, it’s a peaceful and calming cadence, grounding her back in the present. She matches the draw and release of her breaths to his, as one by one her senses cool down from overdrive.

When it’s over she opens her eyes slowly, peeking through hooded lids, taking in the black haired boy who is the picture of indulgent slumber. His face is snuggled into the pillow, but she can picture the childlike smile playing on his lips. _By Etro, that boy just loved to sleep._ That was the first thing she had noticed about him, way back when. Maybe he just liked to dream, she had concluded and left it as that.

But looking at him now, a single word comes to mind: _chrysalis_. A state of transition. That’s what he is; caught between the earnest but unfocused and tempestuous nature of a boy and the excruciating forbearance and fortitude it took to be a man. His test is still to come, his purpose yet to be fulfilled; a pupa in its final moments of sleep before the time of its awakening, though its transformation had already begun.

The more she got to know him, the more she discovered the hidden layers beneath the surface. Although her first impression of him was one of self-assurance and authority (i.e. cockiness if one removed the sugar-coating), she was learning that there was an endearingly shy side to him. The princely persona belying a boy who could be at various times, a little mischievous, a little dangerous, a little insecure, but sincere and passionate, if a bit hot-headed.

She never realised how much you could learn about someone if only you took the time to just talk to them. Like his partiality to fishing for instance. He had mentioned it as an off-handed remark during one of their nightly conversations, but it was so unexpected that she had to probe a little more, and they ended up discussing the topic for three consecutive nights and even during the breaks in the fighting during the day.

“Somehow knowing this about you, it makes me see you in a different light,” she had mused aloud, ignoring incredulous looks from Zidane and Bartz and their exclamations of “Fishing? _Majide!?_ Are girls into _that_ nowadays?!” Seeing the way his eyes lit up, she didn’t have the heart to tell him that no matter what world one came from, women scarcely enjoyed any part of wading knee-deep in rivers or fighting off nausea while rocking in little boats. Even for herself, what memories she has of the sport are purely procedural, picked up somewhere along the way as a survival skill. But she supposes it’s fitting he would enjoy a pastime that gave a deceptively passive impression, and only those that understood it well-enough knew that it required a patient but keen mind, always anticipating, and always preparing to jump into a fight at a moment’s notice.

She had never been much of a conversationalist; never put much stock into the emptiness of words spoken just for the sake of filling the silence. But this thing between them, it’s almost like a dance, or perhaps a friendly duel – a subtle back and forth exchange of blows and crossing of swords, all while being blindfolded and with one hand tied behind their back. And yet somehow they are making it work.

Maybe it’s because of the feelings behind it, something akin to a sense of responsibility and a commitment to being there for each other. It’s a heavy sentiment, but not an unfamiliar one. She knows that she has experienced this once before – just a sip perhaps, but enough to leave a strong aftertaste, impounded deep into her memory.

And tasting it again now...

It’s almost a miracle then. After a millennia spent patrolling the shores of Valhalla in solitude, comforting what remained of her human heart with the conviction that _no matter what she would always have herself_. To think that after all that, she would still be capable of _this_ – offering friendship to another human being. Before that day in the promised meadow, she would not have believed herself brave-enough, or even human-enough to make that call.

Just goes to show how little we truly know about ourselves.

But the bigger miracle still, was that he would accept the offer so readily.

The die is cast. She can only hope now for the strength to see this through, to prove herself deserving of this.

 

.

_Friendship can be seen as unnecessary. Like philosophy or art, it has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins...
> 
> Side note, I have so many headcannons for these 'Noctis-and-Dad' moments, lol. Gonna sneak as many as I can into future chapters.
> 
> Also, writing this made me realise just how hard it is to write a character analysis of a character from another character's perspective. 
> 
> Lastly, I've always believed that the best couples irl are also each other's best friends, and at the heart of every great romance is friendship.


	8. You smile, I smile

Chapter 8: You smile, I smile

 

“Hello! Dissidia to Noctis!” The young man being addressed blinks rapidly as a hand is waved in front of his face.

“Battle’s starting in ten. Time to get your head out of the clouds.”

He hears Vaan tapping a foot, waiting for a response. Eventually the sky pirate shrugs, turning on a heel and following his teammate’s trajectory of sight to where Light is hunched over beside Kain a short distance away. The pair speaks in low tones to each other; the dragoon’s cor hovering in the air next to him as it healed a gash on his thigh. 

“So. You and Lightning huh?”

That finally gets his attention.

“It’s not like that.”

“Not like what?” Vaan doesn’t miss a beat.

“Not...what you are thinking.”

“What am I thinking?”

He shoots a warning glare at his friend, eyes flashing red for added effect. Unfortunately, he underestimated Vaan’s ability to be obtuse. Or maybe the boy just didn’t know when to give up.

“Didn’t think soldier-girl was your type. Shouldn’t you be going for the princess-y, damsel-y sort instead?”

They watch as Kain grasps Light’s outstretched hand, letting her pull him to his feet.

“Looks like you got competition.” Vaan gets in one final playful jab.

He tries not to be bothered by either of those two remarks. But he is. Just as he is bothered by glimpses of bloodshot eyes on an ashen face, of lips that are cracked and bleeding in the mornings. She would never admit to being exhausted, physically or mentally. And on the battlefield she remains a force of nature, true to her namesake. But stars always burn brightest seconds before they fall apart.

He’s just trying to look out for her. As a _friend_ of course.

“I’m...worried about her, that’s all. She...I don’t think she’s been sleeping too well.”

Vaan nods thoughtfully, perhaps sensing a change in the tone of the conversation. “Ahh, I get it. She’s an insommaniac?”

“A what now?”

“An insommaniac, it means someone who has difficulty sleeping.”

“I know what it means, thanks. And I think you mean an insomniac.”

“That’s what I said.”

He shakes his head at his friend’s antics. “Definitely getting you a dictionary for your birthday.” He murmurs under his breath, while sneaking one last furtive glance over at her; the exact moment that she too glances serendipitously back at him.

For a second it takes him back to the start – to the day he unwittingly arrived here in Dissidia; to the moment they first met, standing across each other on this very field, two strangers in a strange land. He gives her a nod and a smile, and receives a small quirk of lips in return. 

Now his reminiscing shifts to something more recent, accompanied by an appreciation of how of far they had come since that very first encounter.

The memory begins with him emerging from the shower towelling off wet hair, to find her perched at the edge of her bed talking to her cor. She did that every now and then so he’d pretty much gotten use to it. There were weirder eccentricities for a roommate to have than the off inclination to talk to themselves (as much as one’s cor could be considered part of oneself). The shining stone hummed and trilled from its position in her lap. Not for the first time, he marvelled at how expressive the little thing was; a far cry from its impassive and reticent owner.

But she was being anything but impassive or reticent now.

“I killed for self-preservation. I took so many lives. In my ignorance and arrogance, I brought down the moon from the sky. I fought as I fight now, to save a doomed world. I can’t see the end, but I can feel it – the cold wash of failure and guilt.” 

Outwardly she looked calm; eyes closed and back straight, a statuesque figure. But each draw of her breath came with little tremors, like a mighty pine tree contending against the howling wind, leaves shuddering though it stood firm and refused to bow. The soothing chimes from her cor resonated softly in the air, though they seemed to provide little comfort. 

He watched as a single tear leaked from the corner of her eye – a solitary moment of weakness, the only mercy and kindness she granted herself. She touched the back of her hand to her cheek, somehow managing to make wiping a tear look dignified.

From what memories he has restored, he vaguely recalls a childhood of being schooled in all manner of lessons on interpersonal skills. But he wishes there was one on ‘how to comfort the girl you have come to care a great deal for, when she’s the stoic soldier type who’s got the burden of the world on her shoulders’. Yep, preferably as specific as that.

_But when in doubt..._

There are times when a young prince has to swallow his pride. But who to ask for help? His advisor? That is the job description after all. Or his best mate? He's pretty good with this sort of thing. Or perhaps...

_Hey Dad, I could use a little help here. What should I do?_

His old man takes a moment to contemplate over the dilemma, before offering his insights.

“You know, son...when someone is crying, of course the noble thing to do is to want to comfort them. But if someone is trying to hide a tear, it may also be noble to pretend you did not notice it.”

_Thanks pops, always knew I could count on you._

He cleared his throat, strolling into the room with a casual rap on the door. “Talking to a rock, Light?”

She glanced up, looking a little startled. Her nose was tinged pink, a shade lighter than her hair, the sole remaining trace from that brief display of emotions a minute ago. There were times when the body was its own master, and certain physiological responses were beyond even the most headstrong of minds to force away at will. If she was self-conscious about it she didn’t show. Maybe she was starting to let her walls down around him, inch by inch.

“Hey, I talk to a rock all the time too. Except this one actually speaks on occasion.”

For a while she just stared at him, eyes screwed up and head tilted to the side, looking comically – and adorably – confused. He motioned to her, and watched as understanding dawned on her face. She threw a pillow at him which he deftly dodged.

“By Etro, Noct. You can be such a dork sometimes. And you’re lucky I like your sense of humour.”

The ends of her lips had pulled up a fraction. But he recognized the smile for what it was. Who knew, his first time seeing her tears (tear if you wanted to be semantic about it), would also be his first time seeing her smile.

“Aw, c’mon Light. It’s like you don’t even know how to smile.”

“Right now, this is the best I can do. Not that I was ever any good at it, I think.” She gave a rueful shake of her head, but the fragment of a smile remained on her face.

“You’ll get better.” He gave her a soft smile in return, dipping his head to meet her eyes. "In the meantime, I'll smile for you."

He wanted to ask about what she had said earlier. Those cryptic lines about her past, what had they meant? But the thought of that hard-won smile gave him pause, the words frozen on his lips.  

“Hey, Light? You will tell me, won’t you? If you were not ok?” He asked instead.

“I don’t know what kind of burden you shouldered before, but you‘re not alone now. We don’t know why we were chosen and brought here, but we are in this together. You said so yourself, right?”

A tug on his vest sleeve pulls him back to the present. He looks up to see Terra, the final member of his squad for the day. The young mage had been observing the interaction of her teammates with curiosity. He feels bad for being distracted while ‘on the job’, immediately forming an apology.

She waves it off. “Don’t apologise Noct. There’s nothing more important than looking out for your friends.”

Then she pushes up on tiptoes, cupping her hands together to whisper in his ear. “If you ask me, I think the prince and his knight make the perfect pair.”

.

They are snowed in. Not the kind of snow where one could indulge in a light-hearted snowball fight, but the angry blizzardry kind. No one is stepping foot outdoors today, not with the planet throwing a massive tantrum of toddler-proportions, pouring giant heaps of snow on the ground and flinging them about.

From the warm interior of their humble abode, preparations are underway for a daring venture into uncharted territory. Yep, today is the day they are finally going to give their ‘new home’ its first coat of paint. Honestly, he wonders why it had taken them so long to get around to it.

“Probably because you were too busy engaging in mortal combat.” Noctis can hear Ignis’ smartass reply in his head. “That is, when you’re not making googly eyes at your new roommate”, Prompto chimes in. He pointedly ignores the both of them.

The chosen colour is a bluish hue. Not quite sky blue; more of a pastel or baby blue. Light had dryly remarked that it was a tone she wouldn’t be caught dead in, but for their walls it was “ok”. That being said, it’s not like either of them had much of a say in the matter – this happened to be the only colour available in sufficient quantities for a paint job of this scale. It hadn’t been easy to find either. In fact, it had been pure luck that he had stumbled across the paint cans and an assortment of brushes in a run-down shed at a secluded area of the warriors’ settlement.

“Should we do this together? Or separately? Start at opposite ends and meet in the middle?” He asks, as she drapes the floor with a canvas drop cover.

In the end they decide to go wall by wall. She shows him the basic technique of painting an ‘N’ in broad strokes, then without lifting the roller-brush, filling it in to form the shape of a square. With every wall he would start in the middle and she at the corners, working their way towards each other one blue square at a time.

Less than thirty minutes in, and he is already starting to realise one thing – painting is _bloody_ _exhausting_. And yet it’s easy to get lost in the moment. To forget where they are and the circumstances that had brought them here; pretending instead that they are just two ordinary youths who were away from home for college, renting a place together, and doing it up in their spare time. Light seems to share his sentiments, though whether consciously or subconsciously he can’t quite tell. The look on her face is hypnotizing; he never thought he’d ever see her look so carefree and relaxed, at peace with herself and the world.

She’s taking the task seriously; not that he isn’t trying his best too. But already the two of them are half covered in splotches of blue paint, a result of him abruptly swinging the roller-brush at an imaginary foe in a moment of mental meandering (otherwise known as daydreaming). It’s one of those spur of the moment things that one immediately wishes they could take back right after it happened. 

“Matches your eyes?” He grinned sheepishly as she stared at him agape. She tried for one of her patented Lightning scowls, though it hardly had the desired effect with her dredged in an array of baby blue streaks and speckles. Then her shoulders started shaking, harder and harder, as she looked down at her now polka-dotted turtle-neck with wide eyes and an almost child-like wonder. He wishes he had a camcorder to record that moment, to convince himself that it was something that had really happened, and not just a figment of his imagination.

Interruptions like that aside, progress was generally smooth, and soon they were left with just the two sides of the wall that served as a partition between the bedroom and the main hall.  

“How bout we do something different here? Maybe draw something? A wall art?” He suggests.

“You mean like graffiti?” She crosses her arms over her chest, tone sceptical. 

“No, I mean like a mural.” He frowns, though it’s more affectionate than exasperated, a mirror of the look she had given him earlier during the roller-brush incident. “C’mon, you sourpuss, it could be fun. You know what they say about art – it’s a form of self-expression. Who knows, it might help with...whatever it is you’re dealing with.”

She considers. He pouts. She relents with a sigh.

“So long as you know that if it turns out bad – and there’s a high chance it will – we’re still going to have to live with it.”

He offers to let her have the inner side of the wall, knowing her hesitancy stemmed from deeper roots than just a lack of confidence in her artistic skills. Maybe the privacy of the bedroom would give her the freedom and encouragement she needed.

And then he is alone.

Well, not really. Though he can no longer see or hear her, he knows that she’s _right_ _there_ ; on the other side of the same wall, barely a couple feet away from him, so close yet so far. In a way it was symbolic of the barrier she had constructed around her heart, locking her fears in and everyone else out. Or the ‘warning high voltage, keep away!’ sign she figuratively hangs around her neck.

He knows only too well what it’s like to keep others at arm’s length for fear of hurting them; although it is a way different feeling being on the opposite side of that fence. He presses his palm onto the concrete surface, unaware that she is doing the same on the other side.

“Go ahead Light. Build your damn walls and electric fences. It’s not like something like that is gonna stop a ‘teleporter’.”

There is a whistling sound of a fierce razor wind in his ear. Had one of the windows come open? Suddenly he is no longer starring at a blank wall but into a snowstorm.

“Prompto!” “Ignis!” “Gladio?” His voice is drowned out by the howling wind that threatens to drive him two steps back for every one he staggers forward. The cold air felt like sawdust against his throat. His arms provide a weak and near useless shield against the stinging hail that pelts his face relentlessly. A numbness creeps over him, and it isn’t just from the cold. If he doesn’t reach his friends soon, the blizzard was going to bury them all in an icy tomb. Heart racing, pulse galloping, he forces the paralysing doubts from his head, driving his legs forward with the strength of a single thought – _I won’t give up on my friends._

“Noct.” A soft touch on his shoulder breaks him out of the memory’s spell. She frowns, looking from him to the wall behind and then back again. He glances over his shoulder. The wall was daubed with uneven layers of white paint that he must have subconsciously smeared on while caught in the maelstrom of the _intrusion_. The white was thicker on the bottom and lighter on top. He supposes that with some imagination, it could pass for an abstract rendering of a snowfall in the deep of winter.

“It’s er...ah...”  

“A work in progress?” She comes to his rescue, finishing the sentence for him. “Hey, I won’t judge an unfinished work.”

“You’re done with yours? What did you –?”

The question is cut off as he pushes open the bedroom door. On the adjacent wall, rendered in plain black outline, is a drawing of a cylindrical bell-shaped object, made from a grated frame that was reinforced on the bottom and folded in at the top – a cage. And in it sat a white dove, wings folded-in by its sides, head upturned toward the sky.

“Light...” He swings back around, stretching out a hand to her. But she is already turning away with a thoughtful frown.

“Maybe we could both use a change in perspective. Would you mind if I take over here?” She gestures to the wall – not the one in their bedroom, but his patchy white one. “Go ahead and add whatever you want to that one.”

He gladly takes her up on the offer. All it takes is a few extra lines, and the birdcage now appears to have a door hanging open. It’s like how adding a stroke or two to certain written characters or symbols can change their meanings entirely. In the remaining space on the wall, he adds a flock of blackbirds, their wings extended in flight as they circled the cage below, calling down to the white dove in it.

Satisfied, he joins her outside. To his amazement, she has managed to transform his bleak snowy landscape with just a single addendum too – a delicate rose, blood-red petals in full bloom, lying half-tucked into the thick blanket of snow; like a lone star in the night sky, or a light piercing through the darkness.

There is a smudge of red mixed with a blue splotch on her cheek. He reaches over to wipe it off before he can stop himself, face breaking into a smile at the cute blush that breaks out on hers.

.

Following him back into their room, Lightning takes a moment to regard the mural contemplatively. 

“I wonder...” He begins, but trails off mid-sentence.

“What is it?” She probes.

“I wonder...if we’re thinking the same thing?”

She turns to look at him, waiting for him to continue.

“I’m thinking of the memories that I have; memories of home, and of my friends. They mean the world to me. They’re so much more than just memories; _they’re my treasures_. I wouldn’t give them up for anything.”

“But...I’m also thinking that it feels good to make new memories, instead of just dwelling on old ones.”

She nods, conceding the truth in his words. The past weeks were a reminder of the strength one could receive simply from not being alone. And although her entire life seemed to be a journey from one point of despair to another, she too had friends who had helped her along the way, lending her their strength and courage when she needed it the most. Of course, it only compounded the guilt she felt at letting them down, and the desperation to make things right.

For my friends to be free, I would gladly be a caged bird forever _..._ She pushes the thought aside for now, instead giving him an acknowledging smile.  

“You’re right. I am beginning to remember what it means to feel things. To need things. Good things. Laughter. Fun. Companionship. These memories, I will treasure them forever.”

She watches as a smile lights up his face, shy but sweet and so genuinely happy that it creates an unexpected fluttering in her chest, as if the little birds on the wall were collectively beating their wings on her heart. It’s a little overwhelming and she has to look away for a second.

She hears him mumbling something about needing to take a nap now as he makes to go over to the beds, with a dreamy look on his face. He is just about to plop down on the nearest one when she finally gathers her wits about her – that’s how out of sorts she is.

“Noct! Not before a bath! You’ve got paint all over you!”

 

_._

_You gave me the most precious gift of all - your smile._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lightning's smile is so rare and precious. That cute little smile she gave to Noctis in the Dissidia NT trailer is one of the main reasons why I fell for this pairing. And of course, I had to end it with Noctis' 'heart-throbbing' smile.
> 
> Noct's memory of the snowstorm is inspired by that one scene from the trailers where he is trying to save his friends in the blizzard. 
> 
> A longer chapter with some fluff this time, before we kick into high gear for the upcoming chapters.


	9. Intrusion

Chapter 9: Intrusion

 

_Together we cast a single shadow on the ground._

.

 

“How about ‘Horns’?”

“...”

“Well, that’s all I got.” Noctis folds his arms over his chest, blatantly mimicking the twin poses of his teammates who are standing astride him with matching severe frowns. From the expression on their faces, one could be forgiven for thinking that they were discussing a matter of life and death, rather than just codenames to use in battle.

“Keep making that face, it’ll get stuck that way.” The dry humour only succeeds in making them frown even harder.

Ok, so maybe it _is_ a matter of life and death, judging by the results of their last battle.

“Light watch out, behind you!” He called out, seeing her in imminent danger from Sephiroth’s katana slash. He doesn’t know why the ex-general has a penchant for seeking her out in battle, but the man is a genius with a sword - probably _the_ best even amongst Dissidia’s distinguished warriors, and held nothing back when it came to sparing with her. WOL had swung around, only to be met with...nothing. A smirking Seph had made full use of the distraction to run him cleanly through from behind. By the end of the battle, both Lights were looking at him like he was the boy who cried wolf.

“Can’t you two have normal names? You know, like normal people.” His grouses fall on deaf ears and he slouches back grumpily against a tree.

 _Wait, hold that thought!_ His body jolts bolt upright and his mind spins rapidly, as if he were in a moving vehicle that jammed brake without warning.

Lightning– is that even her real name? Or just some alias or moniker she picked up in the military? She kept so much of herself behind bars, but he never would have guessed that even her name could be a half-truth. The sudden whiplash feels like a kick to the head.

He curses under his breath, not knowing why this feels so important; and perhaps he is over-reacting, but right now all he wants to do is to grab her and shake her and demand the truth.

“Lightning... _Is that real?_ ” It comes across as both a question and an interrogation. His brow creases, and he narrows his eyes at her.

She places a hand on her hip, lifting an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

He fixes her with a glare, a silent but tacit allegation. She tilts her head to the side, perhaps not understanding where all of this is coming from; and honestly, neither does he. For a moment, they are locked in a standoff.

“A name is just that – a name. This is what I go by now. Does it really matter who I was before?” She finally says.

“Does it? _To you?_ ” He retorts.

The fact that she can’t answer tells him everything.

“When you two are done with the couple bickering, I have a suggestion.” WOL’s tone is affectionate, teasing even, something he never would have expected to hear from the decorous man. The interjection is well-timed too. Instantaneously the tension between them snaps like a twig, his own anger evaporating into thin air. Was this what the others saw them as? He wants to object, but at the same time he doesn’t. Light is doing that thing where her mouth flops open and close like a fish, and her cheeks have turned the same colour as her hair. He doesn’t need a mirror to know that his are the same.

In contrast, WOL looks unabashed at being the source of his teammates’ mortification. He presses his lips together, the corners drawn up ever so slightly in a Lightning-esque smile.

Come to think of it, likeness of names aside the two of them did bear a remarkable resemblance to each other, and he doesn’t mean physically. Both equally zealous about their mission here, and equally anguished as the days slipped by with no end in sight to this unwonted civil war. Perhaps WOL felt accountable, as the unofficial leader, the one that everyone looked to. It ate him up inside to see his comrades all torn up, and at each other’s hands no less. And Lightning, she felt responsible for everything, spurred by demons from her past, desperate to – in her own words – make things right.

WOL clears his throat, voicing the simple solution to their unusual problem. “Let’s just stick to Light and Lightning.”

She nods. “Or if that is still too confusing, I do have a last name. It’s not like there are other Farrons here to mix me up with.”

She turns towards him. “You okay?”

“No! I’m _not_ okay. You really expect me to be okay with that?” He scowls, taking a page out of her book.

And for the second time in as many minutes, he is getting upset over _just a name_. He drags fingers through dark bangs, pinches the bridge of his nose. How can she not understand? There's only going to be one Light to him. Even though he now knows it’s not anything close to her real name. But it still means so much to him, and surely to her as well? Harkening back to that day in the promised meadow; two souls sharing a moment of honesty, an understanding, and a promise of friendship.

“I can’t explain why this feels important to me. It’s just that... _you’re Light_.”

“Noct, I –” She looks like she doesn’t know what to say.

WOL comes to their aid once again. “How about ‘Wol’ then?” He strings the three letters of his title into a single ‘word’. “That’s as close to a real name as I’ve got.”  

The ground beneath them rumbles and swirls, the change in terrain signalling the imminent start of the next battle. Evidently, the planet had reached a decision for them, having run out of patience and eager to get back to its agenda of siphoning magical energy.

Light makes a noise that is somewhere between a huff and a chuckle, sounding both exasperated and amused that they were getting bossed around by the so-called sentience of a dying world. She drops to a knee, lays her gunblade down beside her, then presses a palm flat onto the ground in a token gesture of apology. When she stands, she takes a firm step toward him and places her hand on his shoulder in a similar manner.

“Wol, Noct…let’s do this.” She gives them a curt nod before turning away, preparing to engage the oncoming combatants. He summons his weapon, ready to do the same.

A small voice echoes telepathically in his head, and it takes him a full second to realize that it’s Wol who had ‘spoken’, and not just his own subconsciousness.

“Give her time, she’s worth it.”

.

On the far side of the battlefield, Lightning chases Zidane across the craggy terrain. He scrambles up and down the steep slopes of the rolling hills, in between the peaks and troughs, never sticking to the ridgeline but running directly across the jaggered cliff faces themselves. Ever nimble and fleet-footed, his tail swinging and twirling as it beats from side to side, acting both as a rudder to help with quick successive changes in direction and as an extra appendage for balance.

She is not far behind. Although lacking the benefit of a tail, she’s got a trick or two of her own up her sleeve – smiting the ground with quick bursts of electric blitz to create footholds for herself, carving a path into the mountainside.

He doesn’t seem fazed by the electricity nipping at his heels; rather he seems to be getting a kick out of the whole thing, cartwheeling off an exploding boulder while gleefully calling over his shoulder, “It’s not every day that a pretty girl is chasing after me, even for a _ladies’ man_ like myself!”  

“Slippery bastard.” She curses under her breath, fingertips already sparking with her next attack.

Suddenly he stops dead, limbs hanging slack and feet rooted to the spot. From where she is standing, she can see that his eyes are open but glazed over and his expression is blank. It’s as if he is in a trance – dissociated from the present and lost to the past. The telltale sign of an _intrusion_.

The attack is already in motion, tendrils of electrical current sizzling and crackling in the air as they reached towards the defenseless target.

She tries to pull back on the electricity, which was like trying to redirect a blade in mid-motion or an arrow in mid-flight, literally speaking. It arcs back sharply, half of it dissipating harmlessly into the air while the rest slams into her like the recoil of a hard-kicking rifle. She catches a whiff of smoking fabric and the distinct odor of burnt flesh, but somehow she has managed to mitigate the damages done by letting the charges flow down a leg into the ground. Calf muscles spasm, alternating between twitching and locking up involuntarily, and her mind finally registers the incinerating pain that drops her to a knee.

But what throws her off is something even more _shocking_.

 _"Promise me one thing...Please come back."_ The girl had tears in her eyes. Zidane said nothing; he just stood there watching her leave him. The ship departed slowly, disappearing into the horizon. His gaze never wavered, until she was out of sight. 

_This is...a memory. Zidane’s memory._

_But how...? How am I seeing this?_

There is a flash of silver in the corner of her vision, but her thoughts are too distracted to process it.

“Light, get out of there!”

She vaguely registers someone calling her name, not comprehending the urgency in his voice.

“LIGHT!”

Startled out of the trance-like reverie, she staggers to her feet, spinning around dazedly. As the fog clears, the world slowly shifts back into focus, allowing her to finally regain her bearings – only to get absolutely clobbered by a point-blank Cross-Slash. The last thing she sees is the look of shock on Cloud’s face that must have mirrored that of her own.

.

“Slow down!” Noctis halts his footsteps, waiting for Light to catch up to him. She is favouring her right leg, but it’s her shallow breathing and stiff upper body that gives away the source of her encumbrance. Chest wounds are a bane because it hurt just to breathe and breathing is essential for staying alive.

A look of concern must have shown on his face because she shakes her head slowly. “I’ll live, it’s not like I haven’t had worse.”

“Short cut then?” He suggests, holding out a hand.

She declines the offer, shaking her head once more. “Thanks but I’m fine, really. I’ll admit it hurts a little, all the more reason to walk it off. You go on ahead.”

He frowns. Their current position is just outside the medical facility at the east side of town, still a good ways off from their quarters, and she had exhausted her cor’s energy healing the internal thoracic injuries and the worse of the electrical burns.

“I’ll walk with you.” He retracts his hand, but keeps close to her side. He can’t stop her if she insists on trudging ahead, but he can be there to catch her if she falls.

Together they make their way home, following a sloping path that runs down the backside of a grassy hill.

A sudden spasm in her leg causes her to stumble, drawing in a tight breath and a hiss of pain. She tries to right herself, but her usual jungle-cat-like reflexes have gone AWOL. He catches her around the waist, grabbing her arm and slinging it over his shoulders. She sags heavily against him, fingers digging into the blade of his scapula. Then she gathers her strength and her legs underneath her, releases her grip on his shoulder, and starts to lift her hand away.

Now it’s his turn to shake his head, pulling her back to him with a stern look. He has half a mind to just throw her over a shoulder and warp home.

Perhaps the events from earlier in the day are still weighing on her mind, as she relents with nothing more than a small scowl that is directed at her bad leg rather than at him.  

He lets her set the pace, keeping one arm around her back, hand resting firmly against her rib cage. Her ripped uniform had been unsalvageable, so she now has on one of the standard issue kimono-like hospital gowns. The cloth feels soft but damp, and he hopes it’s just from the sweat on his palm and not because her wounds have opened up again. He is sure his shoulder is going to bruise from how tightly she is gripping it. But a part of him is secretly glad they chose to walk. He can feel the warmth from her body as she leans against him, accepting the support.

In the horizon, the setting sun beckons them home, and the shadows it casts are nearly as long as they are tall. Light seems absorbed by the dark shape created by the interposition of their bodies between the sun’s departing rays and the ground. It looks like the silhouette of a four-legged creature with two heads, or perhaps two humans conjoined from shoulder to hip.

He catches her sneaking surreptitious glances up at him.

“Noct, about what you said–”

“Shhh…no talking till we get home.” He chides gently, recounting Wol’s well-meaning advice from earlier – don’t force her to open up before she is ready; for those who have had to be too tough and too stoically silent for too long, talking about their feelings can be a terrifying prospect.

By the time they reach home, the sun is almost gone from the sky. Even in the soft light, her face looks paler than usual and sweat glistens on her forehead.

“Next time, the short cut.” She accedes reluctantly, a wry quirk of a smile softening her features.

He gives her an ‘I-told-you-so’ grin, imbued with a little cheekiness and playful mischief. “Want to try it now?”

Before she can respond, he bends down and scoops her up bridal-style, warping into the house with his head thrown back in laughter at her undignified squeak of surprise.

“Noct, this isn’t funny. Put me down now!”

He deposits her on a bed, flopping down on the other. But his smile falters when he turns back to her.

She struggles to a sitting position, leaning forward and having to plant one hand down on the mattress for support. The kimono wrap had fallen open at the top, half slipping off lean willowy shoulders. His gaze lingers over the large X-shaped wound on her chest, starting at each collarbone and running diagonally across to end at her lower ribs on either side, cutting through alternating layers of bone, muscles, and nerves, and the ivory skin and soft flesh on top. Just looking at it makes him wince. She catches him staring and he hastily averts his eyes, not wanting her to get the wrong impression.

“I’ll be healed by tomorrow.” She assures. “Fighting fit and ready. I have to be.” The last line comes out as a whisper.

At the end of the last battle, Cosmos had summoned them to her temple, cryptically revealing that she may have found a way to hasten the end to this bloodshed and return them to their worlds. The goddess had warned that it wouldn’t be easy, which was Cosmos-speak for: be prepared for the fight of your lives. Light hadn’t been in any state to attend the meeting, but he had broken the news to her when he got back to the medical facility. She had taken it in with her usual stoic silence, but he could sense the cogwheels turning in her head.

“And if you are not?” He questions.

“I will.” There isn’t a trace of doubt in her voice. In fact, she had spoken so casually that it takes him almost a full minute to grasp the intention behind the words.

 _“Don’t you dare.”_ He snatches her wrist up in a vice-like grip. She tries to wrench it out of his hold but it only enrages him further. His grip constricts, so tight that it’s probably hurting her, maybe even cutting off the blood circulation to her fingers. But he is beyond caring now, terrified that if he lets go she would go and do something stupid.

Without warning, an incendiary blast rocks the walls of their home, accompanied by a beastial roar. The window planes are alight with flashes and flickers of foreboding red glare. In her pupils, he sees a fiery ball of yellow and orange flame, and out of it rises a mushroom-shaped plume of thick smoke.

There is time for a single thought to run through his head: _looks like tomorrow came early_.

And then all hell breaks loose.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter preview: two words, Summon fight!
> 
> Any guesses which Summon is up first? Its probably pretty obvious, haha...


	10. Phoenix

Chapter 10: Phoenix 

 

_What matters most is how well you walk through the fire._

_._

 

They are walking on fire; literally the ground is on fire. It looked like they are about to do battle in the chambers of hell itself.

The entire landscape is alit in geysers of flames. Already the heat is so intense Lightning can feel the hairs on her arms singe. She tastes ash on her breath. And yet a part of her can’t help being captivated by the allure of it all. There’s just something about the raw beauty of fire that is so beguiling. And these flames, they look _alive_.

Looming imposingly at the heart of the firestorm is a hellspawn of an abomination, an incendiary beast wreathe in flames from horns to claws. Its fists look large enough to crush a human in them, and she can feel the ground tremble before its raging roars.

The battle against the fire-demigod is well-underway by the time the two of them arrive at ground zero. Despite the numbers on their side, the fight is shaping up to be everything Cosmos had said it would be. Simply getting through the Hellbringer’s defences is a challenge, as it telepathically controlled the firestorm around it with its pyrokinesis. It also seems capable of generating some sort of protective barrier, warding off long range attacks. And anyone who got close enough to land a blow was bound to take counter-damage from the scorching flames. 

“I have to help them.” Noctis breathes, his worry for the others finally causing him to release the death grip he had on her hand.

“Be careful.” Her voice betrays none of her own anxiousness.

He nods, casting one last look over his shoulder at her as he dashes off into the fog of smoke.

Her first instinct is to go after him. But as she takes a limping step forward, she knows it’s a fool's errand. Without her speed and agility, she is as good as a bird with its wings clipped. Encumbered by her injuries as she is, she would only be a hindrance to him and the others.

_I can’t fight like this._

She quashes the impotent anger and frustration, staring heatedly into the sea of flames, red-hot resolve flaring within her.

In order to rise, the phoenix has to burn.

There is a flash of coal-black incandescent irises in her mind’s eye. It makes her hesitate for a split second before pushing all doubts aside. She will just have to grovel and apologize to Noct when all is said and done.

Thankfully, there are faster and less painful ways to check out. She swings her gunblade around, staring down the barrel before pressing it onto her temple.

Death is instantaneous from the headshot.

.

Eyelids part. The world, once red, then black, is now red again. This time, when the mind wills, the body responds. She summons her armour, charging into the blazing inferno.

The sprite-like flames that immediately swarm her are easily despatched with gushes of Watera. Their master, on the other hand, is on a different level entirely. Although the Hellbringer has sustained a not insubstantial amount of damage, there is still a maniacal look in his eyes as he bares his fangs in a menacing grin. Things like this don’t need a reason to fight; they are chaos incarnate, fuelled by untempered rage and an insatiable appetite for destruction. She meets his gaze squarely, staring brazenly into the blazing fireballs.

Casting Watera is useless, the cool liquid whistling into vapour before it even touches the flames.

“Tch.”  If water won’t work, then they will just have to fight fire with fire.

Sparks tingle on her fingertips. In the skies above them, dark ash-clouds have gathered, spawn from the intense rising heat of the hellfire. These aren’t your average thunderclouds. Already she can feel the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end, and the tingling on her fingertips soon feels like hundreds of tiny ants biting down at once, signalling the imminent discharge of the massive build-up of static charges.

Perhaps a little nudge then.

She raises her gunblade towards the sky, electricity crackling and arcing around it. 

“Hit me with your best shot!”

The sky responds in kind. A massive fork of brilliant white light bursts forth from the clouds, striking the point of her sword. For a second, it feels like she is one with the storm. Heady, invigorating, e _lectrifying_ , nigh _invincible_. With the storm’s might behind her, she swings her blade down in an arc of light. The Hellbringer lets out a terrible roar, half of its face and one arm torn off by the blast.

“LIGHT!”

 _Noct_. She cringes internally. He sounds equally incensed. She can’t see him through the thick smoke, which means that he most likely can’t see her either, but he probably recognizes her handiwork. It almost makes her laugh out loud – the irony that right now she _definitely_ feels more trepidation at facing the wrath of her aggravated roommate than the infuriated demigod who is looking at her like he would want nothing more than to crush her like a fly.  

The beast is on her within seconds. She doesn’t try too hard to evade him, pretending to be cornered as she draws him into a trap.

He grasps her in a fiery fist, grip around her torso suffocatingly tight, crushing the armour plates into her chest. The flames latch onto her eagerly, heating up the metal and running underneath it in search of better fuel for their combustion. She can’t see, the steam from his breath searing her eyes shut. She can’t even scream, though she can taste the blood and bile gurgling in the back of her throat as her features contort in agony. But this is the opening she needs, the opportunity she has been waiting for.

In order to rise, the phoenix has to _burn._

The amount of electrical energy she can generate in her current state is nothing compared to the raw power of lightning. But right now, just a tenth of an Amp, sustained for a mere three seconds, is all that is needed for what she has in mind – stopping the heart.

She knows her physical body won’t endure this furnace for much longer; knows she has but minutes before it is reduced to ashes. She thinks again of coal-black incandescent eyes, half hidden behind dark bangs, and of a warm smile that momentarily soothes the fear if not the pain that threatens to overwhelm her. Holding on to that image in her mind, she wills her limbs to move _– move damnit!_ A trembling hand reaches blindly through the licking flames, somehow latching onto dark claws, the intense heat causing layers of skin to peel off like a glove.

The creature’s grip goes slack, but the triumph is bittersweet. She feels herself free-falling under the weight of gravity, plunging blindly into the sea of beckoning flames below. Then she is being grabbed again, pulled into an embrace and cradled in strong arms against a toned chest.

He tucks her smaller frame into his, twisting around to shield her from the ensuing explosion, and warping the both of them out of the raging inferno. She can feel the hammering of his heart; hear the panting of his breaths.

“I got you.” Noct whispers against her ear, as she finally allows herself to pass out in his arms.

.

The air is thick with the smell of sulphur and the acrid blood-curdling stench of burnt flesh; even the pungent whiffs of antiseptic fail to mask it.

Noctis peels the shirt off his scorched back in one swift motion, like tearing off a band-aid, ripping off raw skin in the process. The cloth had been stuck down to the sticky fluid from ruptured blisters. Terra sits him down on a stool so she can apply a soothing balm and burn dressing. His fists are clenched, knuckles chalk white and nails digging into skin, but it’s not from pain.

The young mage leaves to get him a robe, and he takes the opportunity to slip away. Light is where he last left her, in the care of Yuna, the most adept healer amongst them.  

“How is she?” He asks, though in his heart he already knows the answer.

Yuna shakes her head sadly. “I’ve used her cor to heal her crushed ribs and the worst of the smoke inhalation burns so she can breathe more easily. But her injuries are grievous. It’s horrifying enough to look at, and that’s just what we can see on the surface. There’s also organ failure from shock and toxin release, and noxious gas poisoning. I’ve kept her sedated to keep her comfortable, until...” She trails off, unable to finish the sentence. 

Horrifying is the right word. Most of her body is covered by leathery grey necrotic skin, with areas of waxy coagulated tissue bordered by deep painful red. Five thick stripes of charring encircled her chest and abdomen, and her right arm looks like charcoal – coal black with bits of glowing red and contours of white from visible tendons and bone.

Light stirs at the sound of their voices. Yuna strokes her cheek gently. “Shhh, don’t try to talk.” She soothes.

She grasps at his hand with her not-completely-charred one. It has the same leathery appearance as the rest of her body, with areas that were burned completely through leaving crisp black margins that gape open like a purse exposing the underlying bone. He slides his hand under hers, unsure of how to hold it without causing her any more pain than she is already in. She drags a blackened fingertip clumsily along his palm, as if trying to write something on it. It took several attempts, but he could just make out the crude letters: U OK?

He nods his head, too choked up to speak.

Yuna had stepped out of the room to give them a moment alone, but she returns with Tidus in tow. “Tidus, why don’t you take Noctis to wait outside?”

“Why? What are you going to do?” There is a note of alarm in his voice. The couple share a look.

“It’s not what you think. Although there are those among us who feel it might be the humane thing to do. Cecil is barely restraining Kain out in the foyer. He says it’s what she would have wanted.”

“I’m not leaving.” He says adamantly.

Yuna sighs, then produces a small blade from her sleeve pocket. “I’m going to make an incision on her chest that will release the burnt skin. Trust me, it will make her more comfortable.” She explains gently.

“No, I’ll do it.” He tries to hide the tremor his voice. “Just tell me what to do.”

Following Yuna’s instructions, he makes a deep cut in a line along her collarbones, followed by two more down her sides. When it’s done, he barely registers Yuna taking the blade from his trembling fingers. She covers Light with a sterile sheet. Tidus pulls up a chair for him. There is a pitying look in his eyes. He wraps an arm around Yuna and guides her out the door, closing it quietly behind him.

Outside, a light rain is falling in rhythmic pitter-patters, dousing whatever remains of the hellfire. Inside, it’s just the two of them, just like every other night before tonight. He slips his hand back under hers, lays his head down on the mattress next to their joint hands, and lets his eyelids drift shut. 

.

The next time he opens his eyes, he is greeted by the first rays of the morning dawn. 

He sits up in bed, throwing off thick woollen covers – wait, why was he in bed? The white walls around him and smell of iodoform are verification that he is still in the infirmary. Somehow, sometime in the night, someone had transferred him to a cot and covered him with a blanket.

 _Light_. A quick glance to his left reveals that the bed next to his is empty. The sheets have been changed and immaculately tucked into hospital corners around the mattress.

He scrambles out of bed, finding a discarded shirt and throwing it on. Was she ok? Where had she gone to? The door flings open and in his haste, he almost runs straight into the person entering behind it.

Cecil looks equal parts surprised and apologetic. “Oh, you’re up. I didn’t wake you did I? Lightning said not to wake you; that you needed to rest after last night.”

“Where is she?” He demands. “And when did she…”

“She…er...‘woke up’ a couple hours ago. She’s gone to the cathedral.” He gestures to the massive dome in the horizon.

“You know, you’re a lucky guy.” Cecil remarks out of the blue.

“Lucky?” He gives the older man a look like he is out of his mind. “Can’t even protect my girl – I mean my friend – I mean the girl who is my friend...” He trails off awkwardly.

Cecil simply raises an eyebrow. “Does she know?”

“Know what?”

“Nothing. I’ll let you get on your way.”

He warps himself to Cosmos’ temple.

And there he finds her. She is with the goddess, standing before the crystal throne. Haloed in light and framed in shadow, sans armour and in a medical gown that is the same ivory colour as her skin. It makes her look like an avenging angel of light rather than a knight or soldier – an irate and tempestuous angel of light. Seeing her confront the goddess, he has a chilling sense of déjà vu, except he _has_ been here before.

Old scenes revert, and for a moment he is unsure if he is in the past or present. The words drift up to his ears: “…can go home…I will fight...”

She turns away from the light, signalling that the conversation is over. She takes a step into the shadows, but pauses to glance back over her shoulder with a quiet declaration. “I won’t give up.”

He waits for her to emerge from the temple, reclining against one of the structure’s mammoth pillars with arms crossed over his chest. Her footfalls get louder and louder until they terminate abruptly. He takes that as his cue to look up, meeting soft ember blue eyes. And just like that, the angry tirade he had prepared and rehearsed in his head is wholly forgotten.

They speak in tandem. “What did you hear? / What was that about?”

She looks relieved at his question, waving a hand dismissively. “It was nothing. Asked if I wanted a reward of sorts for defeating the Hellbringer. Told her the only thing I want is for this to end so we all can go home.”

She runs her hands over her arms, subconsciously tracing invisible scars. Physically she is unmarked, not a scratch, as if the last twenty-four hours had never happened.

But they _did_.

The ordeal was over, but they had both suffered – albeit in entirely different ways – some of the worst pain that a human being can ever experience. Not even rebirth in flames can erase memory like that.

“How can you do that? Make it sound so casual. Like I didn’t have to cut you open last night. Like you didn’t just _die in my arms_.”

“Look, I’m sorry.” She says, scuffling a foot on the floor.  

“Sorry for what?” He bites out, harsher than intended.

“Sorry for making you worried.” It infuriates him how she can look contrite and yet unrepentant at the same time. But he doesn’t have the heart to stay mad at her right now.

Instead, he takes her hand in his.

“Let’s go home.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I did say that chocobos aside, all other characters are fair game. My Noctis muse is suddenly looking very nervous. (Don't worry Noct, I've got big plans for you; big 'Leviathan'-size plans.)
> 
> I have a small confession to make. I do realise that Noctis' eye colour is blue not black; I really dunno why I was under the impression that he has black eyes, maybe it's because I thought they were going for the classic 'asian male' vibe with the black hair and black eyes (or maybe it's because black is my favourite eye colour)...anyway for the purpose of this story, I'm gonna take some artistic license and make his eyes black.
> 
> For those confused about the part where Noctis has to cut into Lightning's burned skin - the procedure is called an 'escharotomy', and is typically done for someone with extensive severe burns. I tried to tone down on the graphicness, but I also wanted to capture how absolutely horrifying burn injuries can be.


	11. Dark side of the morning

Chapter 11: Dark side of the morning

 

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep._

.

 

“Read to me, sis?”

 

“Mom and Dad, they’re gone. I’m so scared Claire.”

“I’ll protect you, Serah. I’ll give you a normal life, I promise. We’ll make it together.”

 

“Serah, it’s 3am. You should be in bed; you’ve got school tomorrow.”

“I stayed up to wait for you. I miss you so much.”

 

“Sis, you’re leaving? But you just got back. I haven’t seen you in three days. I’ve missed you.”

 

“Can’t you…call in sick today?”

“No, I can’t, you know that. I’m so sorry Serah, I’ll never miss your birthday again. I promise.”

 

“Give me a chance, officer. Let me off this once.”

“I don’t negotiate with criminals.”

“You don’t understand. I’m not a criminal, I was just desperate. Please, I’ve got family.”

“Tell that to the Sanctum.”

 

“L’cie? A likely story…that the best you two could come up with? Should I be arresting you then?”

“Claire – / Sis, please!”

“Don’t call me that. And I’m not your sis. Get out of my house, the both of you.” 

 

“What’ya looking for in a place like this, soldier?”

_“…my sister…”_

 

“Because of _you_ , Serah is a crystal!”

 

“Look at her! Does she look _protected_ to you?”

.

The first time it happened it scared her cold, made her wonder if maybe she has finally lost it. You know that feeling you get when you think you hear someone calling your name but when you turn around no one’s there? That’s what it had felt like.

Now, she doesn’t know whether to feel relief at the realisation that these aren’t hallucinations; just memories. Old memories. Memories of the start. Memories from so distant a past that their bodies and forms have been lost to the pitiless erosion that is time’s fervent passage, and all that remains are the words that were spoken, and the feelings they conveyed.

They are clustering now, playing and replaying like little sound bites on a loop; gathering strength in numbers, like vultures drawn to nature’s bounty; haunting her, mocking her, reprehending her, refusing to leave her alone.

The voices tell a cautionary tale of a girl who was unyielding in all the right and wrong ways, unsympathetic to herself and by extension to others. Too distant. Too forbidding. Too cold. Uncompromising when she could have made allowances, and absent when she should have been available. It’s hard to swallow – the bitter pill that is her own misjudgements and foolishness, years of them.

This is how it all began, with two inexcusable sins – unknowingly pushing Serah away when her sister needed her the most, and then turning her back on her the one time she asked for her trust. The catalyst and the finishing stroke that sealed the fate of the one person she swore to protect.

_It’s me, it’s my fault..._

You should blame yourself. You drove her away. You threatened her when she came to you. You may as well have signed her death warrant, or pointed a gun at her heart and squeezed the trigger. 

And now here you are in your own aftermath. Without a family, home as good as destroyed, both by your own hands.

_...but you already knew that, didn’t you?_

.

“Light.” Lightning opens haunted eyes wearily at the whisper of her name.  

“You’re lost in your thoughts again.” Noct’s voice is gentle and soft, offering a temporary refuge from her mounting inner turmoil.

“Sure you don’t want to take the day off?” He asks. “You look poorly rested. Did you have a nightmare again last night?”

“I’m fine.” She insists. “Just a light sleeper is all. It stormed heavily last night and the thunder kept me up. I haven’t been having nightmares.” She hopes she makes a convincing liar.

He looks ready to argue, but gives up with a sigh. “Well _I_ have. Since that night, I keep dreaming of you being trapped in the flames, and I’m not in time to reach you.”

Right. _That night._ She acknowledges the metaphorical elephant in the room. Not exactly something she wants to think much less talk about; whether it’s the being burned alive part, or the powerlessness and hollowness she felt as she was dying part, the whole experience had been thoroughly unpleasant to say the least.

And then there was the part that came right after everything went deathly silent. She never imagined that death would look like it did – a seaside pier bathed in the splendour of Bodhum’s sunset, surrounded by endless ocean and sky, the feeling of rough plank wood beneath bare feet and warm rays on sun-kissed skin, the soothing cadence of the breaking waves as they finally greet the shore after a long pilgrimage that began thousands of miles away out at the open sea, and the beloved scent of seabreeze. She never thought that she would ever experience heaven again.

A shadowy figure stood at the edge of the pier, regarding her with curious eyes. “You’ve been fighting for a long time, little soldier. You don’t have to do this. If it hurts too much, I can make it all go away.”

“So tell me, will you choose to wake up, or will you choose to close your eyes forever?”

The way Noct is looking at her now, it feels like he is asking her the same question.

Her answer is drowned out by the sound of the clock striking the hour. He glares at the timepiece then grabs his boots, tugging them on. She follows suit, quietly relieved but at the same time wondering how long he is going to let her run from talking about this.

. 

Nightfall comes quietly to base camp. Tonight’s sky is moon-less and sombre.

Lightning sits cross-legged on the floor of their home, leaning back against the wintry landscape art-wall and its dauntless red rose. It’s a relief that their home wasn’t too badly damaged in the firestorm. She has grown fond of this place. It’s small but cozy, and already there are memories etched onto its walls.

She runs a cloth meticulously over her gunblade, though her eyelids are droopy and laden with fatigue. The events of the last couple days must finally be catching up to her. Right now all she wants to do is to finish up the obligatory maintenance of her weapon and then hop into bed praying for uninterrupted sleep.

The beeping of a horn draws her attention to the front door.

Her cor toots back, then chirps at her, like a little kid excitedly telling their mom that someone was at the door.

“I know, I know, I’m going.” She drags herself to her feet stuffing the crystal into her pocket, wondering for the hundredth time where it got all that exuberant energy. Why couldn’t it be like Noct’s cor? That thing was silent as a rock (no pun intended).

“Don’t worry I’ll get it.” She calls to Noct, who had poked his head out from inside the kitchen at the sound of the small commotion. He nods, going back to rummaging through the cabinets. She debates whether or not she should tell him straight that they were one hundred percent out of hot cocoa – he had finished the very last packet two nights ago. Normally she would replenish the stash in advance, but the commodity was in high demand and low supply lately.

She pushes opens the door and immediately has to shield her eyes from the blinding glare of headlights. What’s a cycle doing in their yard, and at this hour?

She squints through the beam, identifying the bike’s rider and pillion by their distinctive coiffures.

“Cloud. Kain.” She greets. Then scowls. “You guys do know that you have to put on helmets when riding that thing, right?”

The blazefire from the fight with Ilfrit had burned down a portion of camp, and stores of rations and other supplies were currently in the red zone. A small party had been dispatched to take a day’s hike down to the lowlands for a supply run. Evidently Cloud had found an alternative means of transportation back.

“Whatever.” He tosses her a large satchel labelled ‘COCOA POWDER’ in block letters. “You’ve been asking around for this. I scrounged some from the locals while we were down below.”

‘Some’ was an understatement. She has to catch the pack with both arms. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

“Whatever.” He repeats, hiding the lower half of his face in the front hood of his turtleneck jacket.

Kain dismounts from the backseat, stepping into the light. She notices that he is wearing a faded black bomber jacket, probably pilfered from the locals as well. It does make him look roguishly handsome.

“Bit of a sweet tooth?” He flashes a crooked smirk, jerking a thumb at the precious package she is cradling. 

“Actually, it’s for Noct. He loves this stuff.” 

There is a flash of what looks like wistfulness in his golden eyes. “He’s a lucky man.” He murmurs, deep baritone voice almost too low to be heard in the brisk wind.

“I’ve got something for you too.” From the inner pocket of his bomber jacket, he produces a slim paperback book, its title printed in neat cursive on the front cover: _Invictus Maneo_ – the soldier’s creed. “If I recall right, you are a closet bookworm.”

He’s right. Though apparently literature isn’t a big thing here in Dissidia, and books are in even shorter supply than say hot cocoa. Well, it’s not like anyone here has time for casual reading anyway.

She’s got her hands full carrying the load of cocoa powder, so he simply slips the book back into his jacket, then shrugs out of the jacket and slips it over her shoulders.

She doesn’t feel worthy of such a thoughtful gift. “I can’t accep–“

“Please.” He interjects. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had the courage to do something like this, not since…”

There has always been a connection between them that is hard to explain. Even now, she can hear the unspoken oath of his heart – I’m a man; a man who has lost his honour; but still a man. The past can hurt me, but I won’t let it conquer me.

 _I know._ She hugs the package to her chest with one hand, tucks the stand-up collar of the jacket around her neck with the other. 

His eyes sweep down from her face and then back up again, relieved and grateful. Then they abruptly shift course to glance at something over her shoulder. She tries to follow the direction of his gaze but he catches her chin between a callused thumb and forefinger, tilting it back towards him.

“Chin up, eyes forward. You said that to me once. About time I return the favour.”

“And one more thing.” He says as he turns to leave.

“More?” She frowns.

He answers by reaching back over, hand hovering in the air about an inch in front of her face. Then he flicks her sharply on the forehead. “The next time you try to be a self-sacrificing bastard, I’m gonna beat your ass so hard you won’t be able to sit for days.” He chuckles at the look of indignant affront on her face.

“Again – your words not mine, Farron.”

.

Lightning returns indoors to the sight of Noct engaged in what can only be described as ‘pace-warping’. It makes her head spin just watching him half-pace and half-zip from one end of the room to the other. He accidentally bumps into a small pile of books that go tumbling to the floor.

“Noct? What’s wrong?” She asks cautiously. Shouldn’t he be overjoyed to see the packets of cocoa? “Did something happen? Was it…an _intrusion_?” He hadn’t had one in a while, and that usually meant that the next one would be anywhere between unpleasant to painful.

“No, it’s not that.” He rakes a hand through unruly windswept hair, courtesy of all that zipping and pacing. “I just wanted to…never mind…I never noticed you liked reading.”

He crouches down to retrieve the fallen books, and she joins him on the floor. “I’m not exactly transparent about the things I like.” 

 _“He_ noticed.”

“Kain? That’s because I asked if he had seen any books lying around the barracks back when they first moved in.”

He looks unconvinced. “You used to read in bed every night, but I haven’t seen you open a book since we started our ‘nightly talks’.” He has a self-reproachful frown on his face, as if he is blaming himself for depriving her of something she enjoys. 

She is unsure of what to say to that, a frustratingly common theme these days. Should she just tell him the truth? That before she mostly read herself to sleep as a means of coping with the trepidation of nightmares and intrusions. But maybe admitting to this would only make things worse, since it would mean that she had been lying to him about not having nightmares all this time. As someone who literally hasn’t been part of conventional society for god-knows-how-long; and prior to that spent years moulding a phlegmatic character to the extent of becoming emotionally unavailable to her only sister, she's more than a little out of her element here.

What would Serah want her to do in a situation like this?

She takes a stab in the dark. “How ‘bout this then? I’ll read, you listen?” She gestures to the pile of books the two of them just picked off the floor.

“No.” He shakes his head, but his eyes are warm and gentle again. “Let me read to you.”

 _It worked?_ She’d have to thank Serah for this one – that is, if she ever gets to see her sister again.

She picks one of the smaller tombs off the stack. “You’ll like this one. It’s a fable of a young monarch and his loyal companion knights.”

He is more interested in the one underneath it.

“Fifty fairytales?” There is a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Never pegged you as the sentimental sort."

She lets her fingers trail over the book’s worn edges, pausing to inhale its thick earthly scent. “This one reminds me of a memory. Chronologically it’s the earliest memory I can recall; maybe the closest thing to a happy memory that I have.”

“Even before they passed, my parents were barely around. She had a terminal illness, though I didn’t know it then. Spent her last years in a hospital bed. He pulled double shifts to foot the bills. I was left alone to raise Serah. Serah, she loved fairytales. I scrimped and saved for months to buy her a book just like this one. I used to read to her every night when we were kids.”

“One day, her school organised a storytelling competition. I had never seen her so excited. She was going to narrate her favourite fairytale – the one with a heroic prince who slays the ferocious beast and rescues the princess. I wanted her to change the story. Why should the princess wait for a hero to save her? She should have picked up a sword and saved herself. On the day of the contest, Serah did change the tale; her princess does save the day, not by killing the monster but by befriending it instead.”

The dam was broken now, the words kept flowing.

“She was always so kind and forgiving. While I was in detention for beating up the bully who picked on her, she had gone up to him and settled the matter with words and an offer of friendship.”

“On the day we were officially orphaned, I promised her that I would always be there to protect her. In hindsight perhaps she never needed me. But the one time she came to me I...”

“I let her down. _I turned her away_ ” _._ It sounds even more incriminating saying it out loud. She feels angry tears prickling at her eyes, knows she doesn’t deserve to shed them. “Some protector I am. I’m the worst.”

“No, you’re not.” He insists. “You must have had your reasons.”

There is so much trust in his eyes that it feels like someone holding a knife over her heart, not plunging it all the way in, but cruelly letting it bleed out drop by drop. She looks away, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “You shouldn’t put so much trust in me. I haven’t got the best track record.”

“This isn’t the only thing you are beating yourself up over is it?” He asks, but it’s a rhetorical question. “Does it have to do with ‘bringing the moon down from the sky’? You said that you fought to save a doomed world. You weren’t talking about Dissidia were you?”

It scares her a little, how perceptive he can be. As if he has been taught to read between the lines, to analyse and dissect everything he's been told.

She doesn’t know where to even begin. What can she say to make him understand? How do you even start to explain a storm?

 _By showing the wreckage._ “You asked me before about my past. I can’t tell you…”

Her breath hitches, but she pushes forward.

“...but I can _show_ you. I may have a way of letting you see my memories, although it’s…unconventional. You...erm...you’re going to need to take your glove off.”

He shifts closer, tugging his glove off then tugging her down to the bed next to him.

It suddenly occurs to her that this might be their last night spent in each other’s company like this. Just five minutes spent inside her head, submerged in her memories, seeing the things she’s done, and he might never look at her the same way again. How could anyone still think the storm was beautiful if they were standing in the midst of the rubble, bearing witness to the destruction it had wrought?

She doesn’t need reminding that this is the same man who has already seen her at her lowest – physically broken, weak _...vulnerable_. Hell, he has probably seen her half-naked more times than her own sister. It should make this easier, but it doesn’t.

This is madness! The clinical part of her mind reprimands. Foolish girl, do you have any idea what you’re doing? This is more than just an instance or two of ignominy or injured pride. This is your flaws, your failures, your deepest fears – all laid bare!

 _We’re scared._ The fragments of her heart agree.

“You’re trembling.” He reaches over to take her hand. “You don’t have to do this. You’re entitled to your privacy. Everyone has a chapter they don’t read out loud.”

Well, why does mine feel like a whole book? She shakes her head, fringe falling crookedly into her eyes. “No. I want to.”

He clearly placed the highest value on friendship and was loyal and trusting to a fault toward those he saw as friends. If this is what she needs to do to honour that trust, then so be it. Even if it means that after tonight...She lets the thought hang in the air, while choking back a bitter laugh.

It’s funny isn’t it? How you only realize how much something means to you when you are about to lose it for good.

Pooling her courage, she lifts her head, ignoring the clenching in her heart and looking directly into his heated coal-black eyes. “This might hurt a little. I’ve…never done this before.”

He is unfazed. “Whatever it is,”

“ _I trust you._ ”

 

.

_So many things to tell him, but how to make him see the truth about my past._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small breather before the next chapter, which is probs gonna be the heaviest one to date


	12. Let the right one in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some liberties were taken with the plot of XIII/XIII-2 (just to make things abit more poetic). Also, has it ever been explicitly stated how long Lightning was in Valhalla?
> 
> For anyone confused about the 'memory-share’ bit, remember that Zidane scene in chapter 9?

Chapter 12: Let the right one in

 

The electro-shock feels to Noctis like a thousand needles stabbing into his palm at once. His hand clamps down on hers, muscles contracting involuntarily in painful spasms, and at the back of his mind he can’t help but wonder if he’s even capable of letting go if he wanted to. Not that he is going to test that hypothesis.

_I’m not letting go, even if it kills me._

He doesn’t need to put his resolve on trial. The initial shock wears off within seconds, leaving only a warm buzzing and tingling sensation. When he opens his eyes, it’s like he has woken up in another world.

A dream-world. A world of the past, populated solely by memories. He understands that none of what he is seeing is ‘real’, and he can do nothing but watch the pieces fall like a domino.

.

A hunted fugitive, on the run, being chased straight into destiny’s waiting clutches.

Just like him.

One a lowly infantry-pawn and the other the indispensible king; although their surface values couldn’t be more different, in reality both were but mere pieces on the board, subject to the wills of the ones who dictate the game – the ones who call themselves _‘gods’_.

Just like him, magic had been forced onto her without a choice. But while his had come from royal birthright and imperial lineage, hers was a different story. Her memory of this moment is particularly intense, the subdued dream-like sequence he had been witnessing coming to life in vivid definition. He can see the tension in taut limbs jerking futilely against their restraints; hear the terrible hissing as the mark is seared onto the supple flesh of her chest. It makes his skin crawl, seeing her strung up like a puppet and branded like livestock, at the wimp of a callous god.

They had both experienced _it_ – that horrible sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach as your life is crumbling to pieces around you and you are struggling to make sense of the chaos; that crippling affliction known as _loss_ , too much of it all at once; the rug being pulled out from underneath your feet, just as you were starting to find your footing in the world; finding out in a blood-chilling instant that everything you thought you knew had been nothing but an elaborate lie.

But unlike him, she had no one to turn to, not at first anyway. She put on a facade of impassive coldness, but he recognizes the confusion in her eyes, understands the utter anguish better than anyone. Her first impetuous had been to lash out, her second to flee as if she could outrun all that anger and shame. Leaving the others behind and setting out on a warpath, single-mindedly seeking answers and vengeance from those who had taken everything from her. It took seeing herself reflected in the eyes of a frightened and bitter child to realize that she had gone down the wrong road.

Even in her memories Light spoke little, her actions conveying what needed to be said. Clawing her way out of the pits of despair just in time to save that kid and reunite him with his remaining family, vowing to do the same for her sister and herself. Admitting she was wrong, making what amends she could. And finally, rallying the others and leading them to challenge their overlord puppetmasters for the right to cut their strings and control their own destiny. Come what may, the final chapter would be written by their own hands.

But her story had only just begun.

The battle was won but not without loss and sacrifice. The confliction is reflected in her eyes, equal parts joy – her sister saved and unharmed; horror – the moon-planet plunging from the sky like a puppet with its strings snipped; and turmoil – witnessing her friends make the ultimate sacrifice to advert that catastrophe.

Unbeknownst, the collateral spark that would set into motion the beginning of the end had unwittingly been ignited. And in the end, all their actions amounted to was swapping one cruel fate for another, and then another.

“Oblivious fool.” Light’s cracked and rasped whisper cuts through the visions, the only two words she had spoken this entire time, her breath hitching at the knowledge of what was to come.

She is allowed a moment to embrace her sister, the length of time it took to smile and whisper her relief against pink hair identical to her own, “Serah I’m so glad you’re safe.” And then her time is up. She is dragged bodily away by a formless black presence, still reaching for her sister in those final moments. A chorus of disembodied voices filters through the scuffle: You are Etro’s chosen. You must come now to Valhalla. The goddess has need for your service. 

The pawn now a queen, the most powerful piece on the board, but still not free from the chains of providence; and the soldier now a guardian knight, the last defender of a world pivoting on the edge of certain doom.

The images are coming to life again. She is kneeling on a cold floor in an even colder room. For a moment the silence is overwhelming. Then her lips part, and he knows what she is going to say even before she says it. Those three words that she’s said too much.

_“I will fight.”_

.

 _Valhalla_ , the realm unseen; a plane that straddled the gap between life and death. The goddess slept there, wounded and defenceless, her fate and the world’s now tied to Valhalla’s.

She fought to protect the timeline – the past, present and future of her world. Abandoning any pretence for a normal human life in order to fulfil this role. Finding herself caught in a paradox where defeating the enemy also meant losing the war, with no outcome that could conceivably end in her favour. One final twist from the dagger of fate, as if fate itself was mocking her for having the audacity to challenge it.

_Let’s see what you’re going to do now, hmm?_

Her answer to that is simple. “I’ll do what I can, and what I must; if the only way this can end is in my loss, then I’ll make sure as hell this _never_ ends!”

_It’s like...you’ve done this before..._

He is transfixed by the scenes that unfold. The mesmerising dance of swords, every arc of her blade an oath. That determined defiance that he has come to regard as her most defining trait, here in full display and magnified a hundredfold. And every day and every night, the warrior steadfastly drew her sword for a battle she would never win.

“So valiant...” her enemy taunts, regarding her as if she were some strange odd insect, a pest in his sight and yet one worthy of respect. “Isn’t it a pity that no one will ever know?”

“Your precious Serah, her children, their grandchildren. All their lives will pass. Does it hurt, to know that you will never have a part to play in any of that? Soon, even the _memory_ of human touch will fade, and you will begin to question what you are truly fighting for. Duty will be your only salvation.”

“Tell me, warrior goddess. How much longer will you struggle in vain?”

“As long as it takes. Your mind tricks don’t work on me.” Her voice does not waver but he doesn’t miss how she has to hold a clenched fist over her heart.

Her enemy is likewise observant, lips curling into a smirk. “Hmph. Defiant to the end. Almost makes me wish you would have a better ending. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Fate has already been written.”

“My fate, and the world’s, is ours to decide.”

_It’s like...you’ve done this before..._

She had been twenty one when she stood at an altar, ready to pledge forever.

All he can think of is it that wasn’t meant to be like this. Forever was meant to be a sacred covenant between two individuals, vowing to stand by each other’s side for the rest of their lives, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse. But to her, it was signing up to fight an eternal war with the very fate of the world at stake. Unable to win, refusing to lose, in exile and alone.

And yet at the heart of it all, here was undeniable proof that all the darkness in the world was no match for a single candle that refused to burn out.

_It’s so...beautiful._

It’s a terrible thought, and he feels a stab of guilt for even thinking it.

_So much pain and suffering...all of it eclipsed by how beautiful it looks._

All of a sudden it has become hard to breath. It almost feels like he is staring at her naked without her permission. He squeezes his eyes shut, unable to look at this any longer.

.

Coming back to reality is a tremendous relief for Lightning. Reliving all of that at once had taken its toll on her already battered psyche. She feels drained, physically and mentally, like she has just survived a brutal interrogation session. It takes a conscious effort to suppress the twisting feeling in her gut that threatens to make her heave out all the acid in her stomach. Everything feels heavy – her head, her limbs, _her heart_. 

She had broken off the connection as soon as she sensed Noct’s discomfort. And honestly, she is more than a little surprised that he lasted as long as he did without flinching until the very end.

His eyelids are sealed tight. It looks almost painful how hard he is squeezing them shut.

 _I’ll never see it again_ ; the gentleness shining in his eyes, the warmth, the _trust_. The realization hits her like a tonberry’s knife to the gut.

It hurts, she’ll admit. If by hurts you mean it’s the worse feeling in the world; like little pieces of shrapnel lodged deep in her chest, their jagged edges nicking and piercing the quivering organ underneath with every beat, leaving her to slowly bleed out internally.

That’s not to say she regrets anything about tonight. On the contrary, her feelings now are very much similar to what she had felt back at Etro’s temple, kneeling on the freezing stone floor. She had never been more cold; never been more certain that she had made the right choice.  

She had thought herself prepared for this result. And yet, in spite of her best efforts to quash it, there was still a tiny part of her that clung to the hope that he would see something redeeming in her. That despite countless failures and unwitting mistakes she had tried to do the right thing; had stood tall and gritted her teeth and refused to surrender. That he would hear the soundless cry of a broken and bleeding heart.

_Please don’t give up on me._

“How long?” Two terse words, the first to break the silence. His usual velvety voice is rough and strained.

She can only shake her head. It’s a simple question; but a loaded one. They both know what he is really asking – _has it ended?_ The answer to which she both dreads and begs for every time the intrusions catch up to her.

An errant jolt of static electricity causes both of them to wince in unison, a blunt reminder that their hands are still interlocked. He doesn’t seem to notice but she can’t pretend not to any longer, immediately breaking the grasp and sliding her hand out of his.

Fingers cinch around the retreating hand, encircling it and preventing its escape. His hold is firm but not crushing, grip tightening a fraction more, exerting just enough pressure to let her know that he isn’t going to let her pull away anytime soon. 

“My father always said that a man should hold his weapon like how he would hold a lady’s hands.”

It almost makes her laugh in spite of herself. Her hands are rough and coarse; what had once been crops of blebs and blisters nestled on top of each other, self-inflicted from the constant chaff of skin against the helve of her own weapon. Back then she had welcomed the stinging pain – even if at its unbearable worst it had brought tears to her eyes and forced her to bite down on cracked lips to keep from crying out – but at least it was a reminder that she was still alive, still human. Now, there is just thick lichenified skin and a mess of criss-crossing calluses and scars; an exact opposite of the delicate hands of a lady. She tries once more to extract her hand but he has it trapped securely in place. His father has taught him well.

His eyes are still closed but the tension has drained from his features, rendering him with a calm almost meditative expression. Slowly, he runs a thumb across her palm, up to the tips of each finger and then back down the sides, tracing ridges and cracks, outlining calluses and scars.

It almost feels like he is trying to imprint the feeling of human touch onto her.

There is a tight knot forming in her back, uncontrollable shivers chasing each other up and down her spine.

“Your hands...” he murmurs, still absorbed in the task of mapping them. “They are beautiful.”

This time she does laugh, at the pure absurdity of that statement. “In spite of these?”

“No, because of them.”

He reaches up to brush a crop of hair out of her eyes, tucking the stray locks behind her ear, and stroking her cheek gently with his thumb in a familiar gesture that _always_ catches her off guard no matter how many times he does it.

“Every time.” He says, echoing her thoughts. “Every time I do this, you look as though it’s the first time you’ve been touched in centuries.”

In a way that was true, but she’s not about to start feeling sorry for herself now, and neither does she want his pity. “I accepted what I had to do. You saw it all...everything I did, everything that has happened because of me...”

He falls silent for a moment, looking back down at their joined hands.

“I see thin slender fingers, a hand that is small enough to fit entirely into mine; a girl’s hands, moulded into that of a warrior’s. I saw her when the odds were stacked against her, when the world had turned its back on her. I saw who she was in the dark, the choices she made when no one else was there to see them. And I promise her now, that as long as I am here, she will never have to fight another battle alone.”

She hears the strangled gasp from her own lips. He must have heard it too because he looked up at her then, eyes sombre but with a flash of _red_.

“Did you expect me to leave? I thought we were friends Light. You don’t give me enough credit.”

“Noct, I...”

“Light, you asked me before if I understood the meaning of forever.”

“Do you?”

“I do now.”

 

.

_It teaches that all is not, has not been, exhausted. It drives out of a world a god who had come into it with dissatisfaction and a preference for futile sufferings. It makes of fate a human matter, which must be settled among men._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really liked the ‘stand by me’ theme of XV, but I also wanted to explore what happens when the shoe is on the other foot, where Noctis has to ‘stand by someone’ instead of others ‘standing by him’. But rest assured, there’s plenty of Noct-angst to come in future chapters.
> 
> I also really like the 'defying fate' theme of XIII and I've always wanted to write about Lightning in Valhalla. There’s so much guilt, so much pain, but it’s all under the surface. And unlike some other FF protags, a lot of her self-reproach is at least partially warranted and justified. There are some XIII fans who think that her portrayal in XIII-2 was OOC or that it detracted from her ‘defier of the gods’ motif, but I couldn’t disagree more.


	13. First light

Chapter 13: First light

 

 _Your eyes they shine so bright, I wanna save that light_  
_I can't escape this hell_  
_Unless you show me how_

_._

“Let me get this straight, Noct.” Vaan clarifies, crossing his arms over his bare-chest. Noctis can only surmise that his friend had forgotten his shirt again, either that or he just hadn’t been bothered to take out his laundry (again).  

“You’re telling me that hot cocoa cheers you up when you are feeling blue.”

The two are presently huddled in the kitchenette area of his residence. The cocoa powder had been quietly retrieved from the master bedroom, where it had been temporarily forgotten in the wake of last night. He had been extra careful to keep his footsteps low and soft so he wouldn’t wake Light up, though he couldn’t resist tugging the covers up and snug over her before leaving the room. 

Noctis himself had woken at the crack of dawn – actually he hadn’t caught a wink of sleep the entire night, a first since he outgrew the painful nyctophobia of his childhood – for the sole purpose of turning off the alarm clock so that she would sleep in today. After last night, he figured it was the only decent thing he could do for her. And this too, if Vaan would stop with his endless list of irrelevant questions and just help him.

“Why’s Lightning not up yet? She never misses the sunrise.” The boy prattles on. “There’s a great spot to watch it up by the barracks. I would know; I introduced it to her. Seriously, can you imagine Lightning of all people looking at the sunrise with an expression of awe and wonder? Don’t tell her I told you that though! She threatened grievous bodily harm on me if I let slip to anyone! Hey, did you know that there are no sunrises where she comes from? Must have been a bleak and dreary place to live, no wonder she’s so saturnine herself.”

“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” He assures Vaan. Though inwardly he wonders, wasn’t Bodhum famous for its picturesque beaches? How could there not have been – Oh! Of course. She had been referring to _Valhalla_ , which was in a sense where she had come from, literally speaking. 

“Anyway, can we get back to the hot cocoa now?”

“Oh right. So it cheers you up when you are feeling low?”

“Well yea, but that’s not the point!” By now it’s getting harder to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “The point is, Light’s been pretty down lately, so I –”

“So you wanted to make a cup for her. But you stupidly finished the last packet and after that you couldn’t find any more. Then she sees you searching desperately for it and goes out of her way to get you some. And now you have enough cocoa powder to feed the entire camp. What’s the problem again?”

“Just one thing – I still can’t make it for her.” He sighs dejectedly.

“You lost me there.” Vaan folds his hands behind his head, waiting for his friend to expound. 

“I erm...I...Idon’tknowhowtomakehotcocoa.” He rushes out in one breath.

“You don’t know how to make hot cocoa?!” Vaan exclaims.

“Shhh, don’t say it so loud.” He is really starting to think that he came to the wrong person for help. If only Ignis were here...

“You. Don’t. Know. How. To. Make. Hot. Cocoa.” Vaan deadpans, enunciating every word.

“You make it sound like a crime.”

“You don’t know –”

“I’m asking for your help here!” He nearly shouts, having enough of going in circles.

“I’m just curious, how have you been drinking it all this time?” Vaan still sounds incredulous.

“…”

“Right. Your girlfriend makes it for you.”

“Quit the sarcasm and help me. And she’s not my girlfriend.”

“If you say so.” But Vaan does obligingly drop the matter, for now.

A short while later the two of them are sipping hot cocoas on the porch. He finds himself alternating between staring into his cup at the little marshmallows slowly dissolving into the hot liquid, and staring at some random scratch mark on the wall in the general direction of the bedroom.

Vaan shoots him a knowing grin and a wink. “You sly dog, Noct. I should have guessed from the fact that _you’re_ up early and the sky’s not falling down, whereas _she’s_ sleeping in, for once. You must have really worn your not-girlfriend out last night huh?” He reaches over to give him a playful punch on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me too.”

“Wha– No!” He splutters. “Get your mind out of the gutter. Last night was nothing like that.”

Last night was... _everything_. It was heartfelt, intense, and _intimate_ , but not in a carnal manner – Light baring herself to him in a way not even lovers might do with each other. How much bravery had it taken on her part? How can she do something like that and not expect his heart to be moved? Or had his heart already been lost a long time ago?

He knows that life is not a fairytale and besides, she’s made her stance on prince charmings and damsels-in-distress quite transparent in her deconstruction of Serah’s fairytale. A knight in shining armour doesn't need a prince to rescue her. Even last night when she had dropped her walls and let him in, it didn't feel like she was doing it for herself; rather, it felt like she had done it for _him_.

Not to mention that any such relationship between them may as well be the world’s most unconventional May-December romance. Sure, physically Light may not look a day over twenty-one, but her soul was a different matter entirely. And yet in so many ways she’s still a young girl, inexperienced and uncertain when it comes to desires of the heart; lost and finding her way through the dark just like he is.

So where does it leave them now? More than friends but not quite lovers?

It’s all too much to think about. The only thing he knows for sure is that he has made a promise and he fully intends to keep it.

.

“He made me hot chocolate today.”

“ _And_?”

“I think he put five sachets of sugar in there.”

“That’s a _sweet_ gesture.”

"Seph..."

" _What_."

“I think I’m going to get diabetes.”

"And yet you still finished the whole cup."

\

“So how did it go?”

“She had tears in her eyes...”

.

There has been a change in their relationship, Lightning is sure of it, even if she can’t quite put her finger on _what_. She’s still not sure she has fully wrapped her mind around what happened that night, and how the aftermath could be so completely divergent from what she had expected. On the surface nothing’s changed. Although in the nights that followed, they had picked up a new routine – taking turns to read to each other while lounging by the fireplace, then transitioning to bed as soon as the first waves of yawns descended upon him.

The intrusions still came frequently while she slept; only now they were seeing them together. It had taken a few tries, but with a bit of luck she had found a way to maintain the neural link even during the semi-unconscious state of sleep. If he was upset to find out that all this while she had been lying through her teeth about not having nightmares, he did a good job of not showing it. And incredibly, the memories were changing too, at times even traversing the whole way down memory lane to revisit pockets of history from her earliest years (always the ones that were the most cringe-worthy and humiliating for her of course).

Somewhere along the line their beds got pushed together. It wasn’t something they had discussed beforehand; it just...well, _sort of happened_. In a sense it was the only practical thing to do, given that physical contact was requisite to sustain _the link_ TM, and it wasn’t exactly ergonomical to be teetering precariously on the edge on their beds the whole night just so their hands could reach each other. So yes, it’s practical. She likes practical, _gets_ practical.

She shakes the thoughts out of her head as she slips beneath the quilt, ears picking up the sound of rustling sheets next to her, followed by the soft thump of his head hitting the pillow. Only then does she slide one arm out from underneath the covers, laying it down in the space between them, always leaving the choice up to him – to take it or not.

The warmth that engulfs her hand a second later is irrefutable proof of his answer.

When dawn breaks she slips quietly out of bed, tugging on a light sweater as she steps out onto the porch to catch the sunrise. A half-hour later she returns to their shared bedroom to be greeted by a familiar sight – Noct sprawled diagonally across both beds with one arm sticking down the near imperceptible gap in the middle, legs tangled in the covers, hair somehow still preserving that stylishly mussed effect.

Just like other mornings, she has to suppress the urge to make the bed, something that would no doubt be challenging what with him still in it. And just like other mornings, she ends up heaving a sigh of resignation, shaking her head with a smile; accepting the fact that he has fully infiltrated himself into her life, and incorporating him into her routines was going to be a norm from now on.

.

The bed springs give a small squeak of protest as Noctis clambers on. The loss of heat from no longer being in front of the fireplace is quickly forgotten, substituted by that emanating from the warm body next to his. Light is already in her customary sleeping position on her back, legs straight, one arm folded across her chest, the other unfurled by her side. He reaches over to take her scarred hand in his, pressing their palms together as their fingers automatically intertwine.

Once again he is struck by how their hands fit perfectly into each other’s. And he knows that if she could see his dreams tonight it would be of them, with hands linked like this as they raced through the fields of the promised meadow, laughing like carefree children.

It may not seem fair that he gets to see her personal memories if not dreams every night while he couldn’t show her any of his in return; but right now he is secretly glad of that. If she only knew some of the dreams he’s been having of her as of late...

He shakes such blasphemous thoughts from his head, thinking instead of the memories they have been seeing together. As always, Valhalla featured front and centre; but even the scenes from there were different from before, perhaps reflecting a gradual change in her psyche that was unlocking previously inaccessible memories.

.

She called him Odin, the guardian knight that served as her stead and partner in every battle. Clearly, it regarded her as more master than friend, but he recognizes the look in those hard metallic eyes whenever their gaze was directed at her – admiration, the desire to protect, and an affection that ran deeper with each passing day. The countless times it roared to her side when she was in a tight spot, like when a overpowered Graviga spell inadvertently caused the collapse of the high rise structure they had been duelling on. It cradled her in its mechanical arms, shielding her from the shower of thick metal slabs and concrete, and he doesn’t miss how it hung on for a couple seconds longer than necessary before depositing her gently on the ground. “Thank you Odin.” She acknowledged, and it bowed its head deferentially as if trying to hide a non-existent blush before dematerialising into crystal dust.

_Jealous of an eidolon. Real mature Noct._

And then there was the one from two nights ago...

"A stuff toy Moogle?” Memory-Light voiced his exact thoughts as she reached down to reposition the forlorn thing that was presently lying face down in the dirt. “This is mean, even for a toy.”

_Light, you softie._

"Mog isn't a stuffed toy, kupo!"

The moggle she had stumbled across soon after washing up on the shores of Valhalla was the weakest being in all of the void, having lost every fight he had been in. Though it was badly beat-up, it still insisted on a fair duel with her, as per the rules of the realm. He could tell she was torn, unable to bring herself to hit or attack it, but not wanting to hurt its pride any further.

"Okay. Come at me." Lifted by her words, the moogle charged, only to be deflected harmlessly off her to the ground. It hung its head dejectedly, expecting to be rejected and abandoned again for how weak it was. Instead she crouched down by the crumpled heap, lifting it back to its pudgy feet.

"How long do you intend to sleep? Hurry and get up. Let's go."

“Really, I can go with you? You don’t think Mog is a loser, kupo?”

“Not at all.” She shook her head earnestly. “To fail at something over and over, but still get back up to try again; you’ve got real perseverance, much more than I have.”

“Mog, I’m Lightning. C’mon, you’re with me from now on.”

The moogle looked on the verge of tears. “Lightning!” It cried as it rushed at her with open arms, the unexpected force of the tackle sending them both careening back to the ground.

The next morning he had woken up to the sight of Light’s smile; and not just a hint of a smile, or a self-deprecating one, but an actual, honest-to-Bahamut, _happy_ smile. It made him beam right back at her.

“Thank you, Noct. You might not believe it but that’s the first truly happy memory I’ve seen.”

He didn’t know why she was thanking him, or why he had suddenly forgotten how to talk, or why he was having the crazy impulse to pick her up and swing her around in his arms. In that moment the rest of the world was forgotten; lost to the blue of her eyes and the sound of his name from her lips; and that precious smile that ought to be put on trial for stealing his breath away.

And those weren’t the only memories they were seeing.

There was little Lightning getting into fisticuffs in the schoolyard, coming home with scrapes on her knees and elbows, streaks of mud and dirt on her hair and clothes. Her parents’ solution had been to get her a punching bag – one of those inflatable bop-toys for children – and ground her for a week, with instructions to work off that temper before she could go out again.

Light had glared at the bop-bag, while Serah had giggled as she stuck a band-aid on her sister’s knee.

“I think it looks like you, Sis.” At her elder sibling’s affronted scowl she elaborated. “It always gets back up after being knocked down, right? Just like you with the school bullies, too stubborn to stay down.”

Teenage Lightning had other troubles. As if having to deal with the wolf-whistles while on patrol with the Guardian Corps hadn't been maddening enough (he guesses this was where she had practiced and perfected her death glare), once she had almost been recruited by a modeling line.

“But you’re a natural!” the agent had protested, after her thirteenth refusal of his offer.

“Your stance is relaxed but you keep your shoulders back and your head tall”, he rambled on, ticking off his fingers as he spoke. “You pull off athletic but feminine effortlessly. You walk with an almost feline grace, instilled with military purpose. You’ve got that all-natural fierce-as-hell neutral expression, and I didn’t even have to tell you not to smile.”

Light had broken off the link then, so while he couldn’t say for sure, he’s willing to bet his beloved Regalia that the poor man’s fate had been the same as the bop-bag’s.

He reawakens to find her lying face down on the bed so her spiky side was facing him, mumbling into her pillow about how humiliating it was to have him see that. She peaks at him through her fringe and scowls, cheeks aflame in an adorable blush.

He resists the temptation to pinch her cheeks, settling instead on ruffling her hair, musing over the way it framed her face with the spiky blades on one side and gentle curls on the other, a symbol of the duality that is Lightning Farron – a rose with hard thorns and soft petals. The affectionate gesture brings a new battalion of emotions to her face, before embarrassment wore out the pride and she turns away burying deeper into her pillow.

She’s getting better, he dares to hope.

.

A lightning bolt flashes silently in the distance, amidst the puffy cloud tower that rises high into the sky. The boy was adept at reading disturbances in the weather; the girl wary and cautious, almost precognitive in anticipating danger. But they let their guard down. Too caught up in the momentary taste of happiness, they don’t even recognize the threat until the storm is upon them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a lighter note, had to call out that ridiculous modeling gig that SE got for L.


	14. Requiem

Chapter 14: Requiem

 

_"I need you to find my sister; bring Serah to me.”_

Lightning barely registers the ‘plink’ as the glass she had been holding a second ago hits the floor, shattering into a scatter of jagged pieces.

There is a cold and clammy sensation in her limbs, a fluttering of the pulse on her neck, a feeling of paralysis as if her spinal cord had been severed leaving her unable to move or even breathe. The words reverberate around her head like an echo chamber; their meaning clear as day. What she doesn’t understand is _why_? What could have possessed her to even think of dragging her innocent sister into an endless unwinnable war? Surely she would sooner rip her heart from her chest than consent to risking her sister’s life for the off-chance that the world could be saved...that _she_ could be saved.  

“Ouch! Damnit...”

Startled back to reality by her roommate’s muffled curse and hiss of pain, she stumbles back, catching herself against the edge of the table in the kitchen.

“Noct, you’re bleeding!” She drops down to the floor beside him, reaching over to take his hand in both of hers.

“Just a cut. Clumsy fingers.” He jokes, with a little boyish laugh that on most days would have broken whatever spell of gloom that she's under.  

But today all he earns is a reprimand. “Why weren’t you more careful?”

She bites her lip, instantly regretting the unintentional harshness of her tone. “I’m sorry, Noct. It’s just that...broken pieces can cut. You shouldn’t have picked them up with your bare hands.” She drags him to his feet, pushing him out of the kitchen and away from the minor hazard. “Look, you go clean up that cut. I’ll sweep these up and throw them away.”

He gives her a long hard look, before finally nodding his assent.

“Okay, but you be careful too.”

.

There is a belief Noctis recalls – a silly one and steeped in superstition – that the penalty for cracking a mirror is seven years of bad luck. But nobody ever said anything about breaking a glass, right? So why does this feel to him like a bad omen? A portent of something ominous to come?

Is he reading too much into this? He has to be, judging by how he is getting freaked out just because Light of all people dropped a cup on the floor. So what if she has a surgeon’s steadiness of hand? Everybody is entitled to fumble a kitchenware every now and then. 

Or is it the way she seemed to be referring to _herself_ when she was talking about those broken pieces?

Or is it because...

He tries to hold down another wave of nausea, though he is unable to shake the sickening feeling in his gut.

Across their small dining table Light frowns when she sees him pushing his food around the plate.

“Did I burn the fish again? Serah always joked that I’d have to live with her forever because no matchmaker would be able to find me a life partner with my cooking skills.” She quips, a wry quirk of a smile on her lips.

For a second, it’s like the sun breaking through the clouds, and everything is right once again in this little world of their own.

But then the clouds shift back in, and she glances away with a distant look in her eyes. He can’t help but notice how her cheekbones look sharper, her face more hollowed out than usual; can’t help but wonder how a small shard of glass can demolish weeks of progress.

.

When the dreams come, Noctis finds himself in a familiar place. But tonight’s Valhalla is different; it is silent, solemnly so.

He knows what this is – _a requiem_.

The goddess was dead.

Etro’s guardian is collapsed in a crumpled heap on the ground, starring in utter devastation not at a slain goddess, but at the cold and stiff body of her sister. Wisps of chaos coursed around the pair.

“She belongs with us now.” The disembodied chorus of voices affirmed her greatest fear. All she could do was take the lifeless body in her arms, as if trying to embrace her sister one last time.

“ _I did this_. I’m to blame for this. I asked for your help. Because I wasn’t strong enough on my own. Because I selfishly wished to see you one more time. Well I got my wish didn’t I?”

“Oh, Serah. I’m so sorry. God, what have I done to you?” The scornful self-rebuke soon gave way to weeping sobs and anguished apologies.

“It’s okay, Lightning. Don’t cry.”

The knight looked up at a ghostly apparition of her sister. “Serah...you _knew_ this would happen?”

Wraith-Serah nodded. “I have no regrets. I wanted to find you. I wanted to see you again. I wanted to share even a modicum of your burden. I’m not afraid of death, or of the chaos. What scares me is that someday you’ll forget me. So promise me Lightning, promise you’ll remember me. Keep me in your dreams, and in your memories, and we’ll be together always.”  

Her final words stirred something in the defeated warrior, as shock washed away to acceptance. No denial, no anger, no bargaining. She forced herself to her feet, turning with a heavy heart toward the goddess’ throne. Solemnly, she ascended the steps to the vacant seat, features devoid of emotion though the voice that resonated in the empty throne room carried with it every shred of her grief and lament.

“Even if I stand to lose everything, I’ll preserve your memory for the tomorrows yet to be.”

“This is my promise, and my atonement.”

_"I’ll never forget.”_

She rested her sword across her lap. Her head lolled forward slightly, fringe falling crookedly across her face. Noctis can only watch in abject silence as the light dimmed out from her eyes, as the girl he so desperately wants to protect and save, entombed herself in crystal. 

.

He wakes covered in a sheen of sweat, jerking bolt upright and flinging off the covers, rattled to the core and unable to shake that chilling image out of his head. But the heart-rending sight before him unsettles him more. He had thought that anything would be easier to bear than seeing her as cold inanimate stone, but now he wishes he can take those words back.

This is one of the rare times he has ever seen her asleep. In the past, he had always found it unnatural – the way she slept with her arms acrossed her chest and her body still and rigid, as if this was nothing more than mechanical rest, not remotely close to indulgent sleep.  

Her face is damp with moisture. Even crying in her sleep she makes little sound or expression, though her chest heaves with each ragged breath. No, this isn’t crying, nor is it the silent tears that he had glimpsed in the past; this is weeping, the quietest and softest of weeping.

This is suffering in its most organic and profound – bottomless sorrow, indescribable pain, all-consuming despair, irreplaceable loss.

This is _grief_ ; overwhelming grief.

She lets the tears fall in an unbroken stream, making no effort to hold them back for once. As if every tear shed on the outside was a physical manifestation of the bleeding of her soul on the inside.

He wonders if maybe this is some form of delayed shock to the mental and physical stress she had been under for centuries on end without reprieve, or an emotional catharsis of all the yearning and longing that she had compartmentalised and blocked out like a good soldier.

_"At the heart of grief, is love.”_

It’s not his father’s words this time, but a young man’s.

Eight-year-old Noctis had stumbled across a weeping soldier in palace gardens. Dressed in the robes of his father’s royal guard, the man hadn’t looked too contrite at being caught red-handed stealing a crop of the garden’s finest Hybrid Tea Roses.  

“They’re for my sister.” He said with a rakish grin, even as he dried his cheeks with his jacket-coat sleeve.

“Oh. Where is she?” Boy-Noctis asked.

The soldier smiled again, wistful and reminiscent. “In heaven.”

Then he winked at the young prince. “You won’t tell will you? In exchange, I’ll tell you a secret.”

“At the heart of grief, is love. It’s all the love you want to give but can’t. I’ll never stop grieving, because I’ll never stop loving her.”

Noctis doesn’t know how long he sat there, just watching her weep. He had dropped her hand earlier in his haste to awaken from the nightmare, but now he aches to take it in his own again.

“Light, it’s okay. It’s okay to cry.” He soothes the disconsolate figure. Perhaps hearing him, her sobs gather strength, growing louder and harder.

“Serah...” She chokes out. He can tell that she has more to say; but instead she weeps, and weeps, and weeps – for all the love she never had a chance to give, and all the words she never got a chance to say.

“How can I help you not to hurt anymore?” The question is whispered softly into the dark night.

There is no forthcoming answer; even the rose-thief stays silent this time.

There is no cheat sheet, no pocket reference. He’s got to figure this one out on his own.

.

“You’re crying.”

Noctis’ eyes blink open at the soft touch of a hand on his cheek.

Light crouches down beside him, drying his tear-streaked face with the back of her hand. Her voice is hoarse and croaky, even rougher than her usual raspy tenor, as if it’s the first time she is using it in centuries. “Maybe this is just a dream I’m having in crystal sleep. The kindest and cruellest dream. It’s more than I deserve.”

“This isn’t a dream!” He asserts vehemently. “I’m here. I’m with you.”

“ _I’m_ _real_.”

He grasps her hand in his, and that’s when they both see it. A series of angry red markings in a branching tree-like pattern, crawling like a small fern up his arm.

He had looked it up when it first happened, surprised to discover that these things actually had a name. Colloquially referred to by scientists as ‘ _lightning flowers’_ , they were created by the passage of high voltage electricity along a non-conducting surface. From the look of horror on her face, she knows exactly what these are – the beautiful telltales of a lightning burn.

“ _I did this..._ ”

Crap. He sticks the arm behind his back, feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“It's okay! Look I'm fine! It's happened before, don’t even worry about it.” He blurts in a panic.

“This isn’t the first time?” She whirls on him, a myriad of emotions flickering across her face – hurt, anger, fear, guilt... _pain_. 

Double crap. He really stuck his foot in his mouth there.

He tries to reach for her but she reacts as if struck, staggering back, flinching away, closing her eyes and clenching her jaw tight.

Her brow is furrowed. The cogwheels are turning in her head, scanning and replaying loops of memory in search for the answers to her own question. She’s always been a sharp one; it doesn’t take her long to start putting the pieces together. All those times he would hear her coming back to their room and hurriedly stick his arm down the gap between their beds or tangle himself in the covers, hiding evidence of the injury.

The air in the room has suddenly become much thicker and heavier, like a gathering storm.

“I should have known better. What was I thinking?” Her entire body is rippling with little shivers and tremors, like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over her.

“Light, please! It’s not as bad as it looks, honest. You’re over-reacting.” He tries to reach for her again, but a flash of warning from icy-blue eyes freezes him in his tracks, almost reflexively summoning his weapon on instinct. Suddenly he doesn’t recognize the girl in front of him. It feels like being trapped in a cage with a wild behemoth; a wounded wild behemoth.

“Not as bad?” The words are forced through gritted teeth. “It went all the way up your arm. Just sheer dumb _luck_ it didn’t pass straight-through your heart! I could have...would have...”

Her voice breaks, and she looks away, face ashen and contorted. The tremors that were rippling up and down her body have now given way to more violent shuddering, like a bowstring drawn too taut and about to snap.

After a night of having her berserk button smashed into oblivion, she had to be at her breaking point. He clenches his fists, internally kicking himself for not noticing the signs sooner; or did he just presume she was unbreakable? How could he be so naive? Anything can be shattered from within if subjected to the right stimulus. Like how an opera singer can crack a wine glass using only her voice – a sound at just the right frequency will steadily increase the amplitude at which the glass vibrates, invisible to the naked eye, until it’s too late and all that’s left are the shattered pieces.

But Light isn’t a piece of glass; she’s named for nature’s most unpredictable and poorly understood element, and with good reason. Right now, the currents coursing through her are oscillating in perfectly timed resonance, the charges accumulating and building up, till finally she can hold it in no longer. The glass shatters, the currents breaking free like lightning bursting forth from a cloud. Incandescent streaks of crimson-white, the light close to blinding in its intensity. Forks of raw power and pent up aggression, they looked every bit a living thing with a soul and volition. _And claws._

They whip around her, slashing and scorching the walls, shattering the ceiling lights and obliterating every object within radius, accompanied by a medley of crackling ‘pop-pop-pops’ that feel like a pistol going off repeatedly next to his head. The vibrations of the floorboards beneath his feet intensify with each mini-explosion. In the blink of an eye their home had turned into a battlefield, and he is standing in no man’s land.  

Not to be outdone, the sky responds with its own thunderbolt, a streak of argentite silver spearing through the pitch-blackness, piercing the night in half, and thundering a warning in its wake.

And then there is a deafening silence. Either that or his eardrums have finally been blown out.

 _Say something!_ He can hear his heart implore, though he doesn’t know if the plea is directed toward himself or at her. It does occur to him that all their mini-fights and standoffs to date have always ended in an apology, if not a compromise, and almost always from her.

Any second now, surely she is going to say those two little words and then they’d talk about this. He’ll apologise too of course, and they’ll reach an understanding, forge another bond in their relationship. That’s the script they have always followed, right?

Two words cut through the silence, two words that chill his blood cold.

_“Get out.”_

It’s spoken quietly and calmly, with an air of finality.

“Ww-wait– .” He stammers, scrambling forward, searching her face for answers. Once more, he is met with a flash of glacial-blue eyes, and this time it's his turn to flinch, every last thought deserting him except for one – _t_ _his isn’t Light, not the one I know._

“Get. Out.” The crimson lightning discharges again with a resounding bang, the shock waves from the mini-sonic boom picking him up and flinging him against a wall.

Her voice remains emotionless. “Take what’s yours and leave, or I will.”

He storms out, door slamming loudly behind him.

.

_And now you will finally understand why storms are named after people._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In rose vocabulary, Hybrid Tea Roses mean ‘I will never forget’
> 
> The rose-thieving Kingsguard from Noct’s flashback is Nyx; this scene is not cannon of course
> 
> For anyone wondering what lightning flowers, otherwise known as ‘Lichtenberg figures’, look like:  
> https://www.nbcnews.com/healthmain/heres-what-lightning-strike-can-do-your-skin-325006 


	15. Resonance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the final boss of disc 1! With this we’re officially half-way to the end. By far the biggest chapter I have written to date. And it’s fitting that it comes at chapter 15.

Chapter 15: Resonance

 

_I never thought that you would be the one to hold my heart._

_._

 

It's a full house tonight in Tavern 012. All the regulars are in, so a gloomy, brooding prince stands out like a sore thumb.  Somehow he had been roped into a ‘friendly game’ of chess with Kain.

 _How did I get myself into this?_   Noctis shifts in his seat, staring glumly at the intricately carved pieces assembled in two neat ranks at opposite ends of the board. He’s no chessmaster, not like Ignis is, although he has learned a move or two from his trusted advisor over the years. But right now he is hardly in the right frame of mind for a contest of wits. There was just something about the condescending look the dragoon was giving him, and the irrational flare in his chest at the mental image of the older man casually draping his jacket over Light’s shoulders and tenderly capturing her chin between his fingers.

“I’ll take black.” The words had flown out of his mouth a hot second later, and he followed it up with a smirk, imperious and cocky. Kain hadn’t even blinked.

Vaan and Laguna drift over, taking up a seat on the bench beside them. The latter chuckles good naturedly. “While the honour is all ours, what brings you to our humble clubhouse, young highness? Trouble in paradise?”

Tifa sets a drink in front of him, casting the gunslinger a stern reproachful look. “Here Noct, you look like you could use this. Is there anything else I can get you?”

What he needed was Ignis to help him wipe the floor with this purple-clad smug face and salvage the remains of his tattered pride, Prompto to sling an arm around his shoulder in solidarity, Gladiolus to be Gladiolus, and... _Light_.

He forces a smile. “Thanks Tif, I’m good.”

She nods once, offering him a look of sympathy before turning and heading back to the bar.

Others are far less tactful.

Laguna shuffles closer to inspect his arm. “Looks like a superficial burn to me, and a beautiful one at that. But with lightning injuries you never know – they may look trifling on the surface, but the damage is all internal.”

Across the board, Kain makes a point of capturing his queen.

“Looks like you lost your queen, Noct.” Vaan points out the obvious.

“Quit it you all.” Yuna admonishes, voice firm but gentle as ever. “You’re not helping. Noct, did something happen between you and Light? I’ve never seen you this upset, apart from when she...”

Light had told him once that he looked like a kicked puppy when he was upset. “Bet you have a soft spot for puppies, especially cute ones *cough* like me *cough*”, he had teased, eliciting a scowl and the toss of a pillow in his direction, but she hadn’t denied the allegations either. He does kinda feel like a lost and kicked puppy now, without a home to return to and having to listen to all these not-so-subtle innuendoes on the side. If he had puppy ears, they would be drooping miserably.

“I just...You wouldn’t understand. I thought...It felt so _right_. I was so sure that things were getting better...I thought that if I could save her, then – ”

“Then _what_?” Kain cuts in. “Then the two of you are going to live happily ever after? Don’t be naive. A fish and a bird might fall in love, but where would they live?”

“The man’s not wrong.” Laguna rubs his stubble contemplatively. “While the time here’s been lovely with you fine folk, I think I speak for every one of us when I say that subconsciously, we all feel the calls of the ones waiting for us back home. When our job here is done, it will be a bittersweet day to part ways.”

“All I’m saying is, be careful not to lose a piece of your heart here, if you’re not prepared to live with that hole.”

Vaan whistles lowly. “Man, they’re really blowing holes in your ship, Noct.”

“Let me ask you this, boy.” Kain looks him straight in the eye, and Noctis doesn’t like how he emphasizes the word ‘boy’. “What do you like about her?”

“Let me guess. You like that she’s different. Perhaps it was a mere curiosity at first. That mysterious coolness, the way she exudes strength and independence and quiet resolve. It intrigued you; you’ve never met a girl like her before. Maybe you delved a little deeper, caught a glimpse of the stitches on her heart and bruises on her soul, and that indomitable will. You couldn’t help it; you were drawn in like a moth to a flame.”

The dragoon presses on. “And she’s not the only thing that’s different. The unique circumstances you found yourself in played their part as well. At first you sulked and brooded, but then you realized that maybe this was a blessing in disguise, a temporary relief from the shackles of duty and the weight of expectations, and the chance to have something you’ve never allowed yourself to have before. Here was this strange beautiful flower, and you wanted it for yourself. You look at her with gentleness and barely constrained desire; a man’s eyes inevitably betray his heart.”

The judgement is humbling, more so because there is a half-truth to it. The man is perceptive, he’ll give him that. He doesn’t know why he feels the need to plead his case, like some convict on the stand at trial. But after all that has happened between them, can he put his feelings into words?

Memories rush through his mind, from the instant their eyes first met, to the moment their souls first touched; from forging a tentative friendship, to catching glimpses of an aloof but gentle-hearted girl peaking at him over her self-constructed walls.

“You’re right, it’s different.”

“In this world, I don’t feel that constant crushing pressure; no need to grit my teeth and bear it like a man. In this world, I’m not the future-king, no one is looking at me for all the answers, no one is waiting to see me fail. In this world I’m just a normal guy, with a crazy set of powers.”

“And yes, it’s different with her too. I felt it the moment I saw her. An inexplicable feeling; a connection. And it has only gotten stronger with time, _like our hearts are in_ _resonance_. Maybe it comes from knowing that we walk the same road, lonely and dark, the only one that we’ve ever known. Maybe it’s because we share the same conscience of keeping others at arms’ length because this burden is ours alone to bear. And yet, against all odds, we ended up letting each other in.”

“She reached out and I took her hand. Maybe she caught me off guard, or maybe I let my guard down, but from that moment on I was caught. Hook, line and sinker. So maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s all this is about – me getting back at her for stealing my heart.”

“I don’t know how it happened, or when it happened. But I can’t take any of it back now, and even if I could I wouldn’t.  We made a promise to be there for each other. I told myself that I’d break every single bone in my body and my own heart before I break that promise.”

“That’s all there is to it.” 

“I was wrong. You do deserve her.” The unexpected words made him look up at the man across the table. Kain’s golden eyes have softened a fraction, and even more unexpectedly, he sees a trace of respect in them.

“It doesn’t matter, I’ve lost her now. I messed up.” He slumps over in his seat with a resigned sigh.  

That causes a stir amongst the group, which by now has almost doubled in size. It seems that everyone in the tavern had gathered round to listen in. Tifa tries to usher the spectators out, amidst protest of, “Oh c’mon, you do realise this is the hottest gossip in Dissidia – Light and Noct, will they or won’t they?”

Noctis just wants to get back to brooding. No such luck. 

Vaan motions to the marks running up his friend’s arm. “So you saw the darkness in the storm, got a first-hand experience of how unpredictable it can be, and it made you jump ship?”

“She ordered me to leave, what was I supposed to do?”

“You jumped.”

There is a sound of rustling paper, like money being passed under the table. Apparently, ‘hot gossip’ extended to a betting pool as well. He glares daggers at the whole lot of them.

Laguna clears his throat. “Disappointing news, we were all rooting for you.”

“You’re all fools.” A deep feminine voice cuts in.

“Ulti...” Laguna warns, ever-present smile slipping a little from his face. The sorceress pays him no mind.

“The male of the species, always weak to beautiful things.” She croons. “And she is a beautiful one, is she not? In as much as defiance is beautiful, or valiant Sisyphean struggle. Leave her be. She’s not for saving. That girl is a broken thing; a soldier that will never escape the war; a weapon that will never find peace – she’ll never let herself.”

She trails a pale slender finger across the thick wad of black-and-blue on the back of his arm, to the fern-like branching patterns that traced back to the point where the electricity had entered his palm. He jerks away from her touch, wincing involuntarily as more bruises announced their presence along his back and sides. The sorceress’ eyes light up in amusement, and she clicks a tongue at him.

“Just as I thought. Looks like your little rose needs its thorns clipped.”

“Don’t talk about her like that.” He bristles. Light may be infuriating, and at times plain cold-hearted but only ever towards herself; with him, she’d always been too giving and selfless. 

“She’s got her walls up now because she’s scared. She never meant to hurt me.” Just as he never meant to hurt her, learning too late the folly of keeping secrets in a relationship, even if he had only wanted to protect her.

Tifa leans over to clasp his hand, giving him a meaningful smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling softly. “I know the type. Outwardly they may look imperturbable, cold and aloof even; but emotionally they’re skittish little things, always holing themselves away, thinking they’re a danger to others. But once their barricades ease down and they let you in, it’s the safest harbour. Aren’t you the same way too, Noct? Honestly, the two of you are like two peas in a pod.”

Laguna laughs, dispersing the tension in the air. “Well I’m all out of words of wisdom, but I’ll tell you this. I may not be a meteorologist, but from what I know about the biology of storms, each one has a focus, the point around which the rest of the storm forms and gathers. ‘Might seem counter intuitively, but the epicentre is actually the calmest part of the storm, with the lightest of winds and even clear skies above, despite the fifty-knot gales raging around it.”

“So my young lad, if you insist on charging heedlessly into the storm, I guess there’s no place safer to be than in its heart.”

“That is, if she will let you back in.”   

“I’ll take my chances. I know I might get hurt. But who am I to crave the rose if I dare not grasp the thorns?” Rising to his feet, he gives the group a curt nod before turning to leave, destination clear in his mind.

Kain’s baritone voice cuts through the rising chatter. “One last advice, if I may. Being with someone who’s got walls up takes more than just a feeling; it takes a conscious commitment. Don’t tear their barriers down and then run away leaving them exposed.”

Noctis pauses in mid-stride, fists closing by his sides. “I know that I may not inspire the most confidence. And the truth is I have no idea what I’m doing, or what I’m even supposed to do. There’s just something about _this_ , something about _her_ , that makes me believe I can do things _right_. That for the first time in my life, I can fight for something because _I want to_ , and not because I’m being told to.”

He pushes past the heavy tavern doors, stepping out into the chilly night air, catching sight of his reflection in the tinted glass of the shop’s windowpane. His hair is dishevelled, and there is a rather hideous bruise forming on his right jawline. But he recognizes the look in his eyes; the same one he sees on beloved blue embers every day – _resolve_.

“I will fight...

_...for us.”_

 

.

_How many times will you let me change my mind and turn around?_

_I can't decide if I'll let you save my life or if I'll drown._

.

 

Lightning doesn’t know how long she has been standing riveted to the same spot, surrounded by the smouldering wreck that was once a home. After the beating it has taken she doesn’t know how it’s still standing; or how _she’s_ still standing for that matter.

The room is in near darkness; the lights destroyed save for the one directly overhead that is on its last legs, arcing and crackling, spitting out sparks and casting a flickering spotlight down on her.

The thoughts are still chasing each other around her head.

How long? How long had it been going on? Since the first time we...? But that’s weeks! _You oblivious_ _fool!_ Broken pieces...can cut...Lightning...can’t protect...only...destroys...

_Serah, what have I done._

“Don't think, don't think, don’t think, don’t think. Stay in control. Please. Stay in control.” She resorts to chanting the words over and over like a mantra, or a prayer; except there are no gods she will pray to ever again.

There is a sticky wetness on her cheeks. She wipes angrily at them, fingers coming away stained not with the tears she doesn’t deserve to shed; but with blood.

She catches sight of more red on her arms, slowly lifting them up and turning them over. They are covered front and back in numerous cuts and lacerations, some of the deeper ones still with glass fragments embedded in them. There are no spurters, just rivulets of dark crimson trickling down her face and limbs. _Blood on her hands_ – the universe couldn’t have been more point-blank with its derisive mocking, even though she knows she fully deserves it this time. 

A burst of crystal sparks explodes in her vision, and the space in front of her is suddenly filled with all six-foot-three of Noct. He takes a purposeful step forward into the light, and she barely catches herself from recoiling back, the look of pure intensity on his face startling her more than the impromptu appearance itself.

_He came back._

He looks her up and down, expression darkening. His staring unnerves her, makes her feel naked and exposed. He breathes deeply through his nose, swears a few choice words under his breath, then abruptly turns and disappears down the hall in a few swift strides. Five seconds later he warps back in again, flinging her boots at her.

“Wear it.” He orders tersely.

She glares at him defiantly, falling back on old tactics and defences. He meets her gaze evenly, coolly lifting a brow. “That’s all you got?”

She responds to the goad by tossing the boots to the floor, advancing on him and the exit behind that he is barring. If he won’t leave then _she_ will, even if she has to go through him to do so. Her steps are slow, each one deliberate and heavy, forcing her bare feet to walk across the carpet of broken glass that littered the floor.

Noct doesn’t wait for her to reach him. He flash-steps, re-appearing directly in front of her a milli-second later, roughly grabbing her around the waist and throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The last thing she registers is the glint of crimson irises in the corner of her vision, before the world is promptly flipped on its head.

“You’re out of you mind! What the hell are you doing?” She splutters.

“What you told me to – taking what’s mine and leaving.” He replies matter-of-factly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Her face is flaming red. She kicks at his chest, catching him with a knee to the ribs and eliciting a soft grunt.

“Stop that”, he smacks her sharply on the ass, chuckling at her squawk of indignation. “Now be a good girl and hold still for a minute.” He heaves her further over his shoulder, shifting his hold to get a better lock around her knees and lower thighs.

“Noct, you put me down now or I swear to god – ”

“Relax, I’m just going to carry your stubborn ass outside. You know, if you had just listened to me in the first place and put on some damn footwear like a sensible person, there wouldn’t even be the need for this.”

There’s a sudden jerking sensation between her spine and naval. A split second later they materialize outside on a grassy mould, amidst a spray of sparks. Taking advantage of his momentary shift in focus, she wrenches a leg free, hooks it around his neck and torques her body a full one-eighty, executing a precise scissors-headlock takedown.

They both hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the wind out of her lungs. She tastes the moist grass, spitting out dirt and forcing herself back to her feet. Noct is up first. He tackles her, but she side-steps, catching him in an arm drag. He twists around in mid-air, kicking her legs out from under her. Together, they land in a heap of sprawled limbs, rolling down the grassy slope wrapped around each other.

She comes out on top, straddling him and pressing the blade of her forearm into his throat. He turns his neck to the side to avoid the choke, then thrusts his hips up, bucking her off and flipping their positions. She throws an elbow at him, catching his jaw with a glancing uppercut. It only incites him further, snatching her wrists up and pinning them above her head. She thrashes against him, arms jerking futilely, no match for him when it comes to raw strength. He doesn’t give an inch, pressing his body onto hers and using his weight to pin her down, lest she take a knee to his groin. She can feel his warm breath tickling her cheek, and the heat from his body. It makes her stomach flutter; it’s like he’s a different man entirely. When had the cosseted prince learned to be a scrappy brawler?

“You ready to talk now?” He asks, once he sees her offering no further resistance.

She nods limply, conceding defeat.

He exhales a heavy sigh, obsidian eyes softening. “You, are the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met.” It isn’t harshly spoken; more of a lament than a rebuke, but it still makes her feel like someone just punched her in the gut.

“First things first, taking care of these.” He picks up one of her arms, surveying the damage, looking a little guilty at the fingerprint marks his death-grip had left around her wrists, and frowning at the fiery red lines and gashes that could have easily been mistaken for an act of self-mutilation.

“Where’s your cor?” He holds out a palm, waiting for her to hand it over.

She can only shake her head dumbly at him.

“Light.” His voice takes on a warning tone again. “You know I’ll strip you to find it if I have to.”  

He bunches a fist in her shirt collar to show he isn’t lying, but then again neither is she. Who knows where the damn thing is? It hadn’t been on her person when he had dragged her out of there, which meant it was probably lost somewhere in the rubble.

She hears him sigh again, followed directly by the shrill sound of fabric tearing. She clutches at her collar, nearly shoving him back before realising that it’s not _her_ shirt he's ripped, but his own. He shreds the cloth into strips, using them as makeshift bandages for the deeper gaping wounds on her arms, after carefully removing any residual glass fragments still embedded in them. His touch is firm, patient, but with a zephyr-like softness that threatens to break her heart. 

Her hands encircle his arms, reversing their positions. Now it’s her turn to take a good look at his wounds – wounds that she is responsible for.

“Why did you come back?” Her throat feels constricted, and the voice it produces is cracked with strain.

“To do this.” She tenses as he wraps his arms around her, one coming to rest over the small of her back and the other across her shoulders, fingers tangling in her hair.

“I’m sorry.” His lips brush against the shell of her ear. She shudders, an involuntary shiver running down her shine. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Noct. He pulls her in close, running his hands up and down her arms and back.

“Cold?”

She shakes her head, burying deeper into the crook of his neck, trying to hide the tears that are slipping down her cheeks, stinging the raw cuts on her face. Tucked into him, she can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest, hear the steady beating of his heart.

Why did he have to be so sweet and kind and wonderful? She doesn’t deserve it. The overwhelming urge to throw her arms around him is almost too much to resist, but somehow she finds the strength to – barely. He took her hand in trust and the only thing she did in return was hurt him. What right did she have to hold him in her arms now?

 _Please, just this once._ Her heart pleads softly. _I don’t want to be alone. We didn’t mean to hurt him; you care for him too don’t you?_

Precisely why I have to walk away. Besides, if there is anyone that deserves to be alone, it’s me. She thinks bitterly, as the war inside her wages on. She fears that if she stays any longer she might never be able to let him go.

 

.

_The world is coming down on me and I can't find a reason to be loved._

_I never wanna leave you but I can't make you bleed if I'm alone._

.

 

Noctis senses Light’s vacillation.

Her arms are hovering in the air around him, hesitant fingers twitching, fists clenching and unclenching, as if yearning to touch him and hold him, but waiting for his permission.

“You may.” He whispers, tightening his arms around her in encouragement.

She hesitates, fighting herself.

He waits patiently, arms locked around her. An action is a thought made manifest, and this is what he has had to learn the hard way tonight – don’t run when she’s upset; you’re not here to solve her problems, you’re just here to hold her.

Minutes pass - maybe hours - until finally, she settles her arms around his back tentatively, his shirt bunching up under small hands that gripped the tattered fabric like a lifeline. She leans into him, still as stiff as a rod. He knows that this is the best he can hope for, at least for right now. It’s a small victory, but he’ll take it.

There is an assuredness that fills his heart, bolstered by newfound lucidity and clarity of mind, a stark contrast to before when it felt like he was stumbling around in the dark grasping at imaginary threads.

He tilts her tear-streaked face up to look him in the eye.

“I am going to give you the space you need. I’ll move out. But I am not going to let you push me away.”

Just hold on, we can make it. _Trust me._

The first part is said aloud; the second, whispered silently in his heart.

 

.

_You put your arms around me and I believe that it's easier for you to let me go._

_You put your arms around me_

_and I'm home._

 


	16. Every-baaa-dy wanna steal my girl

Chapter 16: Every-baaa-dy wanna steal my girl

 

_The brightest lights, come from the depths of the darkest nights._

.

 

Noctis stretches languidly like a cat before settling back into a comfy position slouched against a pillar at the back of the dim room; the dark and drab ambience of the amphitheatre luring the sleep-deprived prince into sweet slumber.

So many things had transpired over the course of a single night that the arrival of dawn had snuck up on him unnoticed.  

Regrettably, the good part of the morning had been spent listening to Cosmos drone on about her reason for gathering them here at this ungodly hour. Apparently there had been a special meteor shower last night, a portentous event that only occurs once every millennium; and now the goddess needed them to go questing for meteorite crystals scattered across the land. He is already tuning her out and closing his eyes for a cat nap.

He had the good fortune of witnessing the celestial sights first-hand; had silently wished upon the evanescent streaks that resembled a rain of light, falling from the heavens into the moon-less and star-less sky. The whole thing had lasted no longer than a minute, but it was a fitting reminder that there was always light to be found, even in the depths of the darkest nights.  

“What did you wish for?” Light’s voice has a pensive but curious tone. The two of them were seated on top of the grassy hill, leaning back-to-back against each other. 

How did she know he was making a wish? He wanted to ask, but instead he shook his head. “Can’t tell. Or it won’t come true.”

She huffed, and he imagined her rolling her eyes.

“What about you?” He directed the question back.

It’s her turn to shake her head. “Not a wish. I made a promise – to never forget.”

His thoughts are interrupted by an insistent nudging on his ribs. He turns to see Vaan grinning at him like a Cheshire cat.

“Still in the doghouse Noct? The make-up sex was totally worth it though, right?”

“The _what_?!” He splutters, cringing as more pairs of eyes turn to stare at him. He hopes the heat on his face is just from the flickering flames of the fire torches on the wall.

“Oh c’mon. You and Light, rolling around in the grass? We all saw it.” Vaan winks, still with that shit-eating grin on his face. “No matter what the others said, I always knew you would be on top.”

Noctis smiles weakly, although he can feel a piece of his soul withering away on the inside. Being the source of the ‘hottest gossip in Dissidia’ is definitely not as flattering as one might think. Especially when rumour-Noctis has gotten to visit places that real-Noctis can only dream of going, and in all likelihood will never get to go. Yet he can’t stop the indecent image that flashes through his traitorous mind: Light pinned below him, looking up at him with heated and imploring eyes, her body arching up against his, as he dips his head to –  

“Hey Noct, looks like you’re with us!” The timely interruption from Cecil couldn’t have come any sooner. He wastes no time warping to join the veteran warrior beckoning him over from across the room.

The paladin smiles warmly at him; the same kind and understanding smile the silver-haired man had given him when he had showed up unannounced at the barracks last night in need of board and lodging. It tugs at his heartstrings a little, simultaneously overcome by a sudden reminiscence of home and the brothers-in-arms who had started out on a journey with him and who were still waiting for him to go back and finish it.

_Guys...I really can’t ask anything more of you, but please, give me a little more time. There’s something here that I have to finish before I can go back._

While Cecil and Wol occupy themselves with pouring over a crude map of the terrain, he scans the room for Light, finding her about to depart with Yuna and Tifa. Or they would be, if not for the one-sided public display of affection that was holding back one-third of the group. 

The forlorn figure of Tidus had latched on to his girlfriend’s arm, refusing to let go.

“Tidus please, I’m in good hands.” The summoner gently pries her arm out of his clutches, hooking it around Light’s instead.

“Err...you could come with us if you like?” Light suggests awkwardly, caught in the middle between the couple.

“Nonsense, this is an all-girls road trip.” Tifa admonishes. “A few days away from your girl wouldn’t kill you. Look at Noct, being mature about all this.” Noctis forces out another weak smile, doing his best to live up to the praise.

Yuna decides to throw her boyfriend a bone, leaning over to give him a chaste kiss on the cheek. “I’ll get Light to throw up one of those big thundery lightning bolts to alert you if we’re ever in any danger, okay?”

Tidus looks crestfallen, as if he is having an existential crisis. Noctis can only offer him a look of sympathy.

“Noct?” He turns to meet ember blue eyes.

“I...I erm...I...I got to go.” She trails off awkwardly. “We’ll...talk when we get back, I promise.”

.

The sun was starting to peek through the clouds as the trio trekked through acres of tall olive grass, still wet with morning dew. They had followed the winding lakes down to the lowlands, coming upon sloping meadows overgrown with cotton rose and golden lace, with bush clovers and plume grass rustling in the wind, the wild beauty of nature eventually giving way to freshly ploughed fields of farmland.

Even Wol and Cecil look taken aback by the sights. The once dying world had recovered so quickly. There seemed to be a vibrancy in the air, and life around every bend; certainly not the listless melancholy one might expect.

“Gil for your thoughts?”

Noctis sighs, trudging after his companions. “I miss my car. Walking sucks.”

Cecil frowns. “What’s a car?”

“Well it’s like an airship, but on land, with wheels and a motor engine instead of sails. Iggy is usually our wheel-man; he can drive for hours and still stay fresh as a daisy. He says it’s the Ebony, but you can’t convince me to go anywhere near that stuff. Glady likes being up front so he can blast his favourite Altissian jams on the stereo; sometimes I can still hear them in my sleep, that’s how many times I’ve had to listen to them on repeat. And then there’s Prom. He isn’t the best driver but he’s great company, the long rides are never dull with him around, although he does tend to get carsick on the windier roads...” He trails off, realising that he had been babbling on.

“Missing your pals back home?”

He sighs again, running a hand through his hair. “We were on a ‘road trip’ that got...uhh...derailed. It’s hard to explain, but things weren’t looking too good when I left. They’re all waiting on me.”

“Unfinished business? Must be hard for you then, being stuck here, not knowing when this will end.” There’s a look of sympathy of Cecil’s face.

“It is frustrating. But I signed up for this. I made my choice.”

“Sounds like you’re used to _not_ being given a choice? The endless duties and obligations of a young prince must be hard to fulfil. I may not be in your shoes, but I do know a thing or two about how that feels. It can be hard to live up to expectations at times, and in the end we all have to find our own path.”

“But for now, we’re glad that you’re here with us.”

Noctis smiles, grateful and touched by the kind words. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe that you and Kain are brothers. I had a run in with him last night; let’s just say he gave me a pretty hard time.”

Cecil nods knowingly. “About Light, I presume? Something happened between you two? I don’t mean to pry, but you showing up at the barracks last night was telling enough.”

“...”

Cecil lets the silence drag on for a minute, before musing aloud. “You know, Rosa used to say that if the medicine isn’t working, it isn’t necessarily because it’s the wrong one; sometimes you just need to give it a bit more time.”

“I wish it were that simple.” He sighs. “No matter what I do now, it’s not going to change her fate, is it?”

Cecil’s forehead pinches. “She’s dead? Back in her world, I mean.”

 _Damn, Cec’s just as perceptive as his brother, huh?_ “Well...yes and no. She did something. Put herself into some kind of coma in order to hold back the darkness. All I know is that if she were to wake, the world would end.”

“That’s a dilemma.”

Wol clears his throat, glancing over his shoulder at them. “I posed a question to the others once. What if despite our best efforts we lose; what if we fail in our mission here? Do we just call it quits; go home and leave this world to its fate? There was a grim silence, and then someone answered: _if this world is destined to be destroyed, then we’ll just create a new one._ Three guesses who.”

Despite the sombre turn that the conversation has taken, Noctis feels a smile tugging at his lips. But it is the sky that answers instead, with a thunderous crack of ground-to-cloud lightning.

_Light!_

The sound had come a split second after the flash; she can’t be too far away.

His engineblade is already in his palm. No time for explanations. He snaps his arm out, throwing his entire weight forward, flinging the sword in the direction of the flash-bang.

.

This is it. He has officially met his worst nemesis.

Noctis sweatdrops, staring slack-jawed at the scene in front of him. The gallant prince had charged in guns a-blazing, fully expecting to find Light locked in mortal combat with some ravenous beast, all ready to jump in and back her up in a moment’s notice. But instead, he finds himself confronted by a much... _softer_ foe.   

“Erm. Yuna, Tifs...where’s Light?”

Yuna’s elegant priestess robes are uncharacteristically rumpled and her kimono sleeves are ripped and torn. Tifa is sporting a brand new shiner under her right eye. They both have shell-shocked looks on their faces.

“Oh Noct, I’m so sorry...” Yuna begins.

“She’s in there.” Tifa cuts in. She points an arm toward the enemy – a vicious, terrifying, unruly horde of... _fluffy sheep_. The ovine mob is bunched tightly together, flank-to-flank and almost on top of one another, their ranks numbering at least three sheep deep and five sheep wide; completely engulfing their victim and very likely smothering her in a hundred pounds of fluffy fleece.   

“You still alive in there, Light?” Tifa calls out.

Light’s snarky rejoinder is to let loose another crackling discharge of electricity. The air sparks with static, stinging their arms and making the little hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. It stirs the flock into an even greater frenzy; the entire herd bleating as one and almost dancing on their two-toed feet in ecstasy.

“Light, quit it!” Yuna chides. “They are attracted to the electricity.”

“Any bright ideas Noct?” Tifa turns to him with an exasperated sigh. “As you can see, we’re kinda getting our asses kicked here, and by a lot of fluffy fiends no less.”

“Ok guys, time out.” He hooks his arms around the nearest sheep and tries to haul it off the pile. To his dismay, all he comes away with is two fistfuls of wool.

“Baa, baa!” The ornery critter pins its ears at them, and has the nerve to kick him in the shin with a stubby foot.

Alright, that’s it, the gloves are off now. He fumes. No floof ball is going to going to get away with jumping his girl and kicking him in the shin, no matter how cute or fluffy it may be. They were going to be eating sheep stew for days once he is done with these little devils.

 _Or not._ As much as he is loathe to admit, no one amongst them had the heart to stay mad at these sheep, despite their misdemeanant behaviour. Light could have easily thrown them off with a small gust of Aeroga, but evidently she was holding back for fear of hurting them.

_Hold on Light, I’ll get you out._

He climbs into the sheep-heap, careful to avoid the wiggling horns, worming and pushing his way through to the centre. He inhales deeply, filling his lungs up with air. Then he plunges in, groping around blindly through the thick wool until he latches on to a familiar rough and callused hand.

 _And now for the hard part._ A second of pure concentration, and then a flash of red in his vision, accompanied by a well-accustomed sensation that feels like every atom in his body is being sucked through a vacuum. The invisible portal spits them out on the other end, dumping them unceremoniously on the ground half-way across the neighbouring field.

Even for a seasoned practitioner like himself, warping without the aid of a weapon to act as a form of ‘pseudo laser-guided point-targeting’ is no walk in the park; and anything beyond the circumference of a dozen meters was exponentially taxing both physically and mentally.

Winded and fighting to catch his breath, he barely registers the thudding of tiny hoofs until the cavalry charge is almost upon them. _What the?!_ Were these sheep cross-bred with chocobos? How had they chased them down in seconds when he had warped almost a half-kilometer away?

He twists around, throwing his body over hers. Light has the same idea; they just had differing opinions on who should be on top. He is very much aware of a pair of lean arms encircling his face, and a lithe but soft body pressed up against him as she attempts to wrap her smaller frame around his.

Despite the fact that he is seconds away from being zerg-rushed, run-over, and flattened by an ovine mob, he can’t help breaking into a giddy grin. Call him crazy, but how many men got to say they went out with a smile on their face and the girl of their dreams in their arms, and lived to tell the romantic tale after?

.

Clearly, he wasn’t to be one of the fortunate few.

Noctis waves off the apologies of a young shepherd boy, whose sudden appearance had saved them from an undignified death by fluffy sheep. The youth had arrived on the back of a gainly chocobo, armed with a staff that had been fitted with some sort of electricity-emitting beacon. 

“I apologise for the behaviour of my fluffy sheep.” He gives the flock a severe look. “You guys ought to be ashamed.” Beady eyes stared back at him innocently. The mutinous sheep scuff at the dirt with their front hooves like chastised children, bleating piteously.

The lad turns back to Noctis. “I don’t know what got over them. Our sheep are bred for their docile nature, but ever since our old sheepdog passed, they’ve been fretful and despondent. I’m doing my best to care for them, but they just really miss her I guess.”

“Light’s electricity set them off.” Tifa speaks up. The two women had caught up with them, following the trail of hoof-prints and wool on the ground. “The portable stove we brought along wasn’t quite working, so we’ve been using Light’s electricity to cook our meals, once she got over her chagrin at being used as a human rice-cooker of course. Next thing we know, we’re being charged by the entire herd.”

“You know elemental magic?” The shepherd boy gasps, eyes widening. “You’re Cosmos warriors!” He gushes with a deep reverence. “So then, you must be looking for the crystals.”

He rustles around in his rucksack, fishing out a small nugget of crystal meteorite rock and handing it over to them. “This dropped right here in our fields. The sheep found it the next morning.”

“We can’t take that from you.” Yuna shakes her head.

“No, I insist.” The boy is adamant. “It’s the least I can do after all you guys have done for our world. Besides, I think my sheep would want your sparky friend to have it.”

The flock have once again attached themselves to Light, crowding around her and bumping at her legs with their snouts, like skittish children hugging their mother’s skirt.

Noctis can sense her hesitation, can see the maelstrom of emotions swirling in her eyes, even though she tries to feign indifference with her usual stoic veneer. He gives her a reassuring nod, wishing he can tell her that it’s ok to be affectionate, to give and seek comfort, and that she doesn’t have to hide her emotions from others, or pretend to be unfeeling.

Slowly her features soften, and she reaches out to stroke the soft fleece soothingly.

“I know.” He catches the low whisper, carried on the wind.

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about some fluff for a change? (no pun intended)
> 
> Our regularly scheduled angst will resume next week.
> 
> In all seriousness - since this is essentially an AU, I wanted to write the world of Dissidia differently from how it is portrayed in the games as this bleak and barren place populated solely by two bickering gods and the occasional moogle. There can be much beauty to be found, even in a ‘dying world’.


	17. Wisteria

Chapter 17: Wisteria

 

_There is much to be said for cherry blossoms, but they seem so flighty. They are so quick to run off and leave you. And then just when your regrets are the strongest the wisteria comes into bloom._

.

 

Noctis emerges from the old farmhouse to find Light loitering outside, leaning against a manger, silently watching over the flock as they settled in for the night.

He makes his way over, hopping up onto the ledge beside her. “They seem to like you.”

 _Really_ , Noct? Ignis’ face-palm is more than a little over-exaggerated. Beside him, Prompto cringes in embarrassment for his best mate, while Gladio guffaws. _Anything else you care to enlighten us with, your highness Noct the Obvious_? He pointedly ignores the trio. Light, on the other hand, doesn’t even pick up on the pouty-ness in his remark.

“I like them too.” Under the pale moonlight he could have sworn there was a shy blush on her cheeks.

 _She’s so innocent_...Ha, I can’t keep up this ‘petty-boyfriend’ act.

“C’mon, let’s head inside. You can’t stay vigil out here the whole night.”

She gives him a small sad smile. “Do you ever wish you could talk to sheep?”

Noctis is pretty sure that if he could he would be having a firm word of two with the doe-eyed overgrown vermin. Something along the lines of – find your own human thundercloud, fuzzballs, 'cause this one belongs to me!

When he glances over, his little thundercloud has a stormy look in her eyes, which remain downcast. It pricks at his chest.

“It’s humbling, isn’t it?” She murmurs, “How they can grief just like us. They experience loss and pain too. And _fear_. I wonder, what is it that scares them the most? Is it the same thing that scares me? The fact that we’re supposed to go on with life without the one thing that gave it meaning. It’s daunting, and intimidating, like staring into an abyss. But there’s a thought that terrifies me more, a fear that one day the evanescence of memory will take the last reminders of her from me; that one day I’ll no longer remember the sound of her voice, or the happiness of her smile. It will be like losing her all over again, for the second, third, fourth, and innumerable times after. Loss is a continuum that never ends.”

He feels heartened that she is baring her heart to him; that she hasn’t locked him out of there completely. And yet the sorrow and despair in her voice scares him, as does the way she subconsciously scoots a little over to keep some space between them.

“Have you...thought about giving up?” He asks, trying to be circumspect.

She turns to meet his searching look face on. “You’re asking some tough questions tonight, Noct. But the simple answer is no. As long as I still draw breath, I’ll honour Serah’s wish, and her sacrifice.”

“I haven’t lost myself to grief. There’s still too much at stake, too much that I have to fight for.” She doesn’t elaborate more, but her eyes remain locked on his. After a minute, her gaze shifts back to the flock, huddling together for warmth and comfort.

“You know,” He muses aloud. “They’ve got each other, and others that care for them. They’ll make it. They’ll be just fine.”

“You think so?”

“I do.”

They lapse into silence. Her eyelids are closed, her breathing measured and even, and just as he is beginning to wonder if she has fallen asleep, he hears her speak again.

“I haven’t thanked you.”

“What for?” He tilts his head questioningly.

“You know...” She says cryptically, ducking her face into the red cape that she has wrapped around her neck as a make-shift scarf.

“You mean how I saved you from being smothered by a mob of overgrown floofs? I couldn’t let that happen, it’d be too embarrassing.”

That draws a trademark wry smirk out of her. “That too. And you’re never going to let me forget that one, are you?”

He laughs. “Well, you could bribe me. Take me back in?”

The smile on her face immediately falters. Her shoulders tense, and she looks away with a tight grimace.

 _More foot in mouth moments,_ Noct? Ignis’ judging voice snorts in his ear.

“Oh hey would you look at that! Looks like it’s going to rain, we better head back in.” He hops off the ledge and busies himself with dusting his clothes down. Light lands softly beside him, wrapping her arms around herself. She follows him back to the guesthouse, eyes glued to the ground.

“So, er...you girls heading back tomorrow? You got the crystal, mission accomplished.”

“Yuna and Tifa will take it back at first light.” She replies, already reassuming her usual repoise. “There’s just one more thing that I need to do.”

.

It never ceases to amaze him how the weather in Dissidia can change like a fickle mistress. Noctis rubs his palms together, tucking the hood of the borrowed parka over his head. Beside him, Light is similarly outfitted, warmly wrapped against the cold as she bridles up a chocobo.

No matter, it wasn’t going to put a dampener on their plans. What’s that saying about lemons and lemonade again?

He swings up onto the feathery back, reaching down to offer Light a hand up.

The chocobo turns its wiry neck to give him a meaningful ‘look’. If chocobos could wink it probably would have done that too. Then with a shout of ‘kweh-kweh!’, his co-conspirator races out of the blocks, taking off at breakneck speed. He might have found himself dangling off its flanks had he not been an experienced rider; plus he did have the additional benefit of being prepared beforehand. Behind him, Light is forced to slip an arm around his waist, fingers latching on to his belt buckle.

If she ever found out that he had bribed the bird with a palmful of galsyal greens...

The steed’s powerful strides carry them across the seemingly endless acres of open fields blossoming with profusions of wild flowers, the drifting flurries of snow oddly poignant and affecting among the colours of spring.

In the horizon, all eyes are drawn to the magnificent mass of magmatic dacite rock, rising three thousand feet into the sky, with a snow-capped conical dome on top. The mountainside half blanketed in pine trees that are bathed in a thick fog. Although the stratovolcano has been dormant for centuries, civilisation still left it a wide berth, respecting its beauty and danger.

They dismount the chocobo at the foot of the climb. From there it would take them a day’s trek through the forresty mountain-range to reach their destination. Thick boughs lined the sides of the narrow path, forming an arch over it. Ahead, the trail fades into a glistering mist and fallen leaves with a light dusting of snow on them. The surreal ambience feels like something out of a winter wonderland.

In the end, they had stumbled upon the site almost unwittingly – an ancient temple in the depths of the solitudes. Much of the edifice and the monuments surrounding it have been reclaimed by the forests, surrendering to the flora and fauna. The paved floor and stone steps are lined with carpets of moss and the once proud columns and pavilions are enwreathed by thick branches of giant wisteria trees that have found use for them as scaffolding. At the centre of the complex, a three-storey pagoda rose out of the foliage, flanked by a pair of weathered stone lanterns. It is, quite possibly, the most enchanting sight he has ever seen.

The first sounds that greet them are the soft padding of paws, along with a symphony of excited whines and howls, and the occasional warning growl.

A yipping bark at his feet draws his attention to the ground. He looks down to find a puppy gnawing on his bootlaces.

“At least we know we’ve come to the right place.” He points out.

“The right place, you say?” The foreign voice belongs to an elderly man, plainly dressed in the robes of a monastic order. Around him, more dogs emerge through the wisteria’s purple mist, curious to inspect their visitors.

Light’s got her hands full with a large black husky. His wolfish face, deep barrel chest, and oversized paws betraying his ancestral lineage. He lopes around her, pushing his wet nose into her palm, tail vibrating in happiness.

Noctis bows to the monk in greeting, stating the purpose of their visit to the shrine.

The old man nods in understanding, before disappearing back into the lavender shroud.

He returns carrying a little puppy with black-rimmed eyes and droopy ears by the scruff of its neck. The small pup had managed to catch its tail between its teeth and was happily chewing on it. “This is what you’re looking for.” The monk holds the pup up to them, not missing their exchanged look of skepticism.

“Of course she’s not ready to herd sheep yet!” He laughs. “She’s barely weaned. Give ’er a few months. Canine-espers are a rare breed these days, ‘specially electric ones like her.”  

The pup yawns, twitching its nose and sneezing up electric sparks.

Noctis lets out a relieved laugh, thankful that it hadn’t been a wasted trip. The old caretaker leads them to a small teahouse, its thatched roof covered in more dropping vines. The black wolf-dog trots along at their heels, hopping up onto the bench next to Light.

“Looks like Prince has taken a liking to your lady friend.” Their host remarks, calling for his apprentice to bring along dried fruits and rice rolls. “He’s always had a weakness for pretty girls.”

The black iron pot that hung from the hook of charred bamboo over the stove was quickly put to boil and soon cups of hot scented tea made from rice flour and barley were being passed around, their aroma wafting up into the frosty air.

Beside him, Light takes a bite out of her rice roll, offering the rest of the treat to her new canine friend. He wolfs it down, licking his lips, then playfully nips at her sleeves to prod her into a game of fetch.

The monk exhales a heavy sigh. “Prince has always wished for a human family, I can see it in his eyes whenever the odd traveller strays up our mountain. But he knows his place is here, so he’s never let himself get too attached. He must really like that girl.”

“Don’t let his puppy personality fool you. Prince is practically canine royalty around these parts. He’s the last of an ancient line of dire wolves that have the ability to foretell calamities. On his dam’s side, he also inherited the secret art of the messenger dogs.  They were bred as war dogs once, trained to use projections of their aura to deliver messengers between units and garrisons during times of war. But now they mostly live here at Wisteria shrine. Whenever Prince has a vision, they help to warn the townsfolk of it.”

“The dire wolves have long life-spans. My greatest fear is that Prince will live to see the end of the world, knowing there’s nothing he can do to prevent _that_ calamity.”

Light has been subtly listening in to the conversation. She scratches behind her companion’s small ears, then rips off a strip of her cape to tie a red bandana around his neck. The wolf-dog climbs up on his hind legs, resting his front paws on her chest and his head between them.

Noctis finds his attention drawn to something else. A lurker in the shadows. She too has a wolfish face like Prince, but is of a smaller build. He suspects that her coat had once been as white as snow, waxen but dusted with the lightest of pink; a far cry from its present form caked in grime and tainted to the colour of cinder. She paces uneasily, ears low and flat on her head, limping on three feet whilst holding a badly mangled rear leg off the ground.

“Be careful with that one. She might hurt you.” The old monk warns.

His feet move on their own accord, approaching her slowly from the side. He tries to keep his stance relaxed and his body open, showing her that he meant no harm. He drops to a crouch across the yard; far enough that he isn’t invading her space but close enough that he can hear the low rumbling in her throat. She stiffens, muscles tensing till they are hard as stone.

“What’s her name?” He asks.

“Doesn’t have one. She was brought here with the other war dogs but she’s unsocialized, mostly keeps to herself. Don’t take her for a cripple though, I’ve seen her take on an adamantine bear. She’s got the heart of a lion but she’s also a cold-hearted killer that could rip out your throat in an instant.”

He inches forward, whispering in soft undertones and holding out a hand in a show of trust. Finally, she settles onto her side, going back to licking a wound on her paw, though she keeps a watchful eye on his movements. He knows that this is a waiting game; that he needs to be patient. This has to be on _her_ terms. The only thing he can do is to show her that he’s not afraid and that he’s not going to push her into accepting him before she is ready.

“Noct, what are you doing?”

“It’s okay Light. This is something I need to do.”

“This isn’t the time to be willful, Noct. That thing looks half feral. Even the monks don’t trust it.”  

“Belator.”

“What?”

“Belator – _the warrior_. That’s her name.”

“She’s not cold; she’s tough. Life hasn’t been easy for her. She’s been conditioned not to expect kindness from anyone, and to keep her feelings hidden. But when I look at her, I don’t see feral, not even close. I see a protector and a guardian, just like Prince.”

“I trust her. And I want to show her that it’s safe to trust me too.”

“You’re wasting your time. This is a lost cause.” She tries to dissuade him one last time.

“That’s for me to decide.”   

When he glances back, Light is observing him with an unreadable expression on her face.

.

Lightning awakens in the deep of the night, rolling out of her cot. It’s frigid, and the small fire in hearth has almost completely burned out. Her first thought is to search for timber to rekindle it, knowing how prone Noct is to catching colds. That is, until she catches sight of the bed next to hers.

To her consternation, it’s empty. Which means that stubborn boy is still out there.

She mumbles a curse under her breath, throwing on her parka in a hurry.  

Outside, the snow on the ground is soft – fresh. The night sky is crowded with stars; almost as if every single star in the sky has come out to shine tonight. Under the soft light, the drooping Wisteria swayed wistfully, as if beckoning her to their side. She pushes past the wispy veil, suddenly overcome by a pensive melancholia.

The Wisteria are just like Noct and I. The hanging blooms and dark violet tones are symbols of sorrow, while the wrist-thick stems that are strong enough to crush walls are a testament to its hardy and tenacious nature. And as the vine endures, so does its sorrow.  

She finds him fast asleep on the ground, illuminated in starlight, snowflakes falling lightly on his hair and face and clothes. It gives him an ethereal beauty, like a prince from a children’s fairytale come to life. Belator is curled snugly around him, her grimey winter coat providing enough warmth to shield him from the biting cold. The dog’s ears prick up as she approaches, and it growls a low warning deep in its throat.

She sheds her parka, crouching down and draping it over his sleeping form.

“It’s ok. Let me take him.”

_I’ll protect him. Trust me._

_._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know ffxv has already done the 'messenger dog' thing, but I really love dogs so when the opportunity came for a little world-building I just had to have them visit a dog park. And yes, Prince and Belator are loose parallels of Noct and Light (or at least how they see themselves).


	18. King’s knight

Chapter 18: King’s knight

 

_After an advance of both king pawns, 1. e4 e5, white's most common next move is to advance the king's knight._

.

 

Lightning wakes to a sound so heart-breaking that her first instinct is to put the poor creature of its misery. The _Algea_ themselves could not have conjured up a more wretched sound. She almost refuses to believe that it is coming from a fellow human being.

Her second instinct spurs her to her feet, racing through the halls, nearly tripping over unlaced boots in her haste. She has no sense of direction, her feet simply carrying her in the heading of those desolate sounds. Her heart thumps in her chest, urging her on. But when she finally comes upon the thing that she so desperately seeks, she freezes – suddenly unable to move even an inch further, as if she had been reverted back to a crystal statue.

Noct is on his knees, doubled over with his hands planted on the cold floor of the pavilion. She recognizes the wet streak marks on his face, and the agonal gasps from his lips.

He alternates between crying like a small lost child and weeping like an unashamed grown man. His arms look like they may give out any instant, and at times his shoulders shake so hard she fears he is having a mini-seizure. Crying is not a pretty sight, quite the contrary. But there is something poignantly beautiful about the way he is baring his pain and sorrow.

Why does seeing him in pain hurt like this? Not like a knife to the gut, or being burned alive _–_ and _that_ was some painful shit – but like her _soul_  itself is being ripped apart. And yet externally her face remains impassive and emotionless; a testament to years of enforced control and practiced restraint.

He looks up through puffy eyelids, sniffles through a red-tinged nose.

“It’s my dad.” His voice is raw and pained. There is no need for further explanations – the drops of liquid spoke volumes, without a word having to be said.

The emotions come in violent waves, like he is a boat being battered and tossed about mercilessly in a storm. His fists slam onto the ground in a flash of anger. “He said he would always be there for me! He promised...he promised!” And then he slums over, almost curling into himself. “I...I wasn’t there for him.”

The inexorable storm has finally succeeded in wrecking the little boat, and now he is either going to swim or drown.

 _Comfort him!_ Her mind shrieks at her, positively livid at her inaction. _How long are you going to stand there like a useless mute?_

The castigation is not unwarranted; truthfully she deserves more, like a hard slap to the face for instance. She’s in shock, unable to fathom how anyone could allow themselves to be so openly vulnerable without even trying to hide it. In the past she would have frowned at this, dismissing him as a kid who needed some toughening up. Perhaps that is the reason why, for the life of her, she can’t master up a fitting response.

But she is no longer that foolish girl now.

 _Prove it._ The inner voice dares.

She reaches out, pushing her hand through the gap between them, her other hand burrowing deep into her jacket to grasp at her cor for support. She succeeds at wrenching her jaw open, but the words are stuck in her throat.

_Coward._

Why? Why are words failing her now? Did she not have even an iota of courage?

But Noct always had courage enough for both of them. His gaze flicks up to meet hers, looking at her so openly; his tears – his vulnerability – shining in his eyes.

An epiphany, is that what it is called? The moment when you realise the truth for the first time.

_Vulnerability is not weakness, it is pure bravery._

“You’re king.” She gasps.

What the hell, soldier?! You had one job, and instead what comes out of your mouth is this?! Her cor sighs audibly, thoroughly disappointed in its master. It fades to silence, leaving her on her own to either live or die by her sword.

Noct shakes his head with a dry laugh, rueful and humourless. “Don’t mock me Light. I’m just a fool prince, who could do nothing as the traitors murdered his father and razed his kingdom to the ground. What a laughing stock I am. My ancestors must be rolling in their graves. And my friends...I can’t bear to see them disappointed in me; or worse – wounded or dead because of me.”

“I am nothing, least of all a king. What’s a king who’s got nothing to his name?”

She hauls him onto his feet, summoning her armour and dropping onto a bent knee – a symbolic pledge of allegiance from a subject to their sovereign. “Then I’ll be your knight. Those monsters in your head, I’ll chase them away. _I’ll fight them for you._ ”

Her head is bowed, so she is caught entirely off guard when she is hauled back to her feet herself and shoved up against a wall, slamming back first against it.

“I want your _trust_.” He seethes, getting right up in her face. “Trust and loyalty are two completely different things, in case you haven’t figured that out.”

“Noct...” Her arms are around him in an instant. There’s a flash of panic when she realises what she’s done, but she squashes that shackling fear. If she can’t do this for him now – can’t be his shelter when he is exposed and vulnerable; can’t be strong for him the one time he needs her to; can’t cast aside her fears to give him the only thing he has ever asked from her – then she really is no better than a half-feral wild dog.

He sags heavily in her arms, resting his head against her shoulder.

“I can’t bear it.” The boy cries. But it is the man that looks back, with eyes of tempered steel, forged in flames, even as they brimmed with tears – a juxtaposition of _vulnerability_ and _strength_. Just looking at him like this takes her breath away.

Still she tries, once again, to redeem herself; to find the words to comfort the boy and the man.

“Death cannot kill what never dies. He lives in you, in your heart, forever. Even if the world has been lost, it is still yours to reclaim. You can save your kingdom, you can be king again.”

“I believe in you.”

He sighs into her, breath tickling her neck. “I haven’t forgotten what is mine. What I’ll always have. What they can _never_ take from me.”

His voice flickers, like a candle in the wind; but the resolve behind it is like a roaring bonfire, ferocious yet contained. He burrows into the crook of her neck, soaking her collar with his tears. She allows herself to rest her chin on top of his head, stroking his hair softly.

“Shhh, it’ll be okay. I promise.”

.

The snowfall is finally letting up.

Lightning paces restlessly around the courtyard, eager to move out. A few flurries still drifted in the air, but her boots are no longer sinking halfway into the snow with every step.

Although the morning’s happenings have her wound up and on edge, she’s actually feeling a great sense of relief inside.

For awhile, she had been confused and conflicted, unsure about what to do. When apart she found herself missing him. He awoke a part of her that lay dormant for years, feelings she thought she had long exorcised. All that discipline and restrain she had duly cultivated, come undone just like that. And when he put his arms around her...

_Let’s face it, Farron, you never stood a chance._

He had seen through her walls, held her scarred hands, braved the storm, and thawed the ice around her heart. But it was the man she knelt before today that stirred her soul. In his moment of doubt she had held him tight, but she doesn’t fool herself. Someone like her – all hard edges and broken pieces – was not meant to be holding someone like him in her arms.

_Doesn’t matter. I know what I have to do now._

His knight.

It’s a part she’s suited to play, a role she’s well-versed to fulfil. With this, she can justify staying by his side; even assuage her fears that being too close to her will bring him nothing but pain and sorrow. Back when she was Etro’s knight, her sole purpose had been to protect the goddess, a duty she had carried out unflinchingly despite the harsh terms of service. And now by vowing to be _his knight_ , she is vowing to protect him, from monsters both real and imaginary; and if need be, even from her own hands.

She wishes there was more she could give, but what else can a reanimated crystal offer to the prince of prophesy? At least this way she can pledge herself to him without betraying her conscience or overstepping her boundaries.

The sound of footsteps draws her attention. Prince lopes up to her, pushing his wet nose into her palm. Through the lavender shroud, she catches sight of the old monk standing a few paces off, watching them sadly.  

“I’ll find a way to save him; to bring this to an end.” She smoothes a hand through the wolf-dog’s thick fur, adjusting the red bandana around his neck. “You have my word on that.”

“There’s a courageous soul inside of you. But the path you walk is a lonely one. Why let go of the one person who’s willing to walk it with you?”

Following the direction of his gaze, she glances over to where Noct is being accosted by the canine residents of the park. He crouches down, giving each one a farewell pet, receiving overly-affectionate licks on his neck and face in return. One of the pups trips him over, and she has to suppress the laugh that threatens to escape her lips as he lands sprawled in the snow with an “oof”, more dogs piling on top of him.

When she doesn’t respond, the monk sighs.

“The weight of the world; it’s a heavy burden for one so young to shoulder. It’s funny, how both insist on bearing the load alone, yet are so eager to carry that weight for each other. I see a deep affection in your eyes, along with a reckless desperation. That boy has it too whenever he looks at you. Love has that effect – it makes irrational fools out of all of us.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, old man.” She brushes him off. “If anyone’s being rational here, it’s me.”

“And yet you believe that the heart is a piece on a chequered board that can be directed at will, with no feelings or opinions of its own.”

“It’s worked for me so far.”

The old monk smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He turns away, disappearing back behind the Wisteria’s veil, leaving her with one final bewildering thought.

“When will you realise that he’s never wanted you to fight _for_ him. He’s only ever wanted you to _fight for him_.”

.

The squish of pine is soft underneath Noctis’ feet, along with the occasional snap of twigs. The tree line stretches right up to the rivers’ edge, providing shade and shelter for the two travellers trekking along its banks. The aqua-blue gem twinkles under the midday sun, a gentle breeze stirring small ripples across its surface. The reflection of deciduous shrubs and towering Alder trees in its clear body looks almost like a watercolour painting.

In another life, perhaps this would have been a romantic stroll in the woods – two lovers meeting for a secret rendezvous; or a newlywed couple escaping from the mundane troubles of life, forgetting about the rest of the world and just enjoying the pleasure of each other’s company.

Not that there’s anything close to romantic about this. Apart from sneaking the occasional glance at him, Light keeps her eyes trained forward, walking stiffly as if into battle. She sticks close to him; but more like a bodyguard, matching her steps to his and glaring daggers at anything that dared get too close.

An unfortunate tree lizard had nearly met its end when a sudden gust had shaken it from its perch and into Noctis’ shirt pocket. The scuffle that ensued comprised of Light jumping him, very nearly ripping his shirt off, and culminated in her awkwardly straddling him while holding a detached wiggling tail in her hand. The beady-eyed reptile had scuttled off to safety – sans tail but with its life.

She pushed off him, apologising for her ‘jumpiness’, and carefully checking him over for ‘injuries’ before offering him a hand up. He allows her to pull him to his feet, still a little dazed and confused about what just happened, and thoroughly baffled as to why she is suddenly acting like this.

That little incident aside, they have mostly been walking in silence, lost in their own thoughts. That is, until the thunder started rolling in. Noctis sighs, looking up at the overcast skies above them. When had the fog gotten so thick that he can barely make out the water’s edge? The winds have started to howl like the wolves up on the mountain; the kiss of the cold draught on his skin bringing out a sea of goosebumps.

There’s a village not far off where they could have stopped to wait out the bad weather, but they had chosen to push on instead, in the vain and obstinate hope that the storm would simply blow past. Not the best decision in hindsight, but sometimes the truth is hard to accept until it’s staring you in the face. The sudden urgency to get back to base may have been compounded by his need to do something other than ruminating over how bad the situation was back home, and how stagnant progress has been here, and how bleak Light’s future looks, and what all of this meant for _them_.

Well in all fairness, the freak storm had descended in a hurry. 

It soon becomes clear that this brewing storm is no ordinary one. It could even be misconstrued by the superstitious locals as the harbinger of world’s end. This feeling – it’s almost reminiscent of a blistering fire that still haunts his dreams at night, drenching his sheets in cold sweat.

“Seriously? This again?!” He scoffs, but it’s more tongue-in-cheek than exasperated.

“Hey, you beat me to the punch!” Light laughs, for what seems like the first time in days. He cracks his knuckles, and they exchange smirks.

It’s good to know that they are both on the same page here – yes, this is an unexpected surprise to be sure, but it is a _welcome_ one. Here he is, hankering for a fight, and one shows up right at his front door.

Suffice to say that fighting is the only thing he wants to do right now; the only thing he _can_ do right now. At least when fighting you don’t have time to mope about your inadequacies and failures. He’s desperate enough that he’ll take on a thousand daemons all at once, let alone some magical storm. It won’t bring him redemption or vindication, but right now it’s the only outlet for his pent-up frustration that has damn near reached boiling point. Fighting monsters is easy, way easier than facing the enemy within.

A howl of a different kind draws their attention; the incorporeal figure of the messenger direwolf appearing in a bluish glow through the fog. Prince growls low, tail flicking from side to side, ears flat on his head. Having caught the humans’ attention, the wolf lopes over to their side in a single bound. Light crouches down beside the ghostly figure, stretching out a hand to it. “Hey, little one.”

Any comment he was about to make on the irony of calling a giant half-direwolf a ‘little one’ is immediately drowned out by the series of visions that floods his mind  – the waters surging, summoned by the storm, gathering mass and morphing into a massive tidal wave that rises up like a serpent’s head; the hurricane blowing inland, its nefarious intent clear as day; and the floodwaters devouring the land, levelling the coastal towns and villages, refusing to stop until it had consumed everything in its path.  

Something is controlling this superstorm, and he knows just where to find it.

“You have to stay here. Do what you can to protect the villages. I’ll find whatever’s responsible for this and give them a piece of my mind.” The sound of gushing water is getting louder with every second; the swirling gales picking up speed, strong enough now to rip whole branches from trees, though their roots held firm to the ground – _for now_. Even though they are standing metres apart, he has to shout to be heard over the racket.

“You can’t just blindly charge in.” She yells back, rolling out of the way of more falling lumber, the rain pelting her face mercilessly.

“The heart of the storm. It’s got to be there. If I can reach it somehow...” He knows he is rambling, but Light manages to catch his drift.

“...I’ll cut you a path.” She raises her sword, thrusting the length of the gunblade into the squalling winds. For a moment he wonders if she has lost her mind – a sword can’t ‘cut’ air, no matter how sharp the blade or how adept the wielder, it’s just physics-cally impossible. The storm seems to agree, howling louder still as if laughing at them. Light remains impervious, never one to let the impossible stop her. She swings the blade round in a circular motion, rotating her arm like a spinning turbine and calling forth a whirlwind of her own. The swirling blast of air sends the hood of her parka flying back. Instead of letting it funnel up, she directs the vortex forward; like a tunnel cutting through and parting the winds and the rain.

“You’re a genius, Light!” He grins. “Wish me luck.” 

She grabs his arm. “I’m coming with you. I have a bad feeling about this, Noct...Once you charge in you’ll be surrounded on all sides. If something goes wrong, it’ll be hard to break out.”

She is frowning at him, brow knitting in that adorable way that just melts his heart into putty. Typically he would counter with his own secret-weapon – the infamous Caelum puppy-dog eyes. And from there on it would be a fierce fight to see who capitulated first. But he doesn’t need to bring out that card today; not when he’s got a much bigger hand to play.

“You’re my knight, aren’t you?”

“Yes, that’s why –”

“That’s why you’re going to listen to me and stay here.” He raises an eyebrow, daring her to defy him.

“I...you...you can’t– ” She splutters, with the eloquence of an angry tortoise.

“Walked right into this one, Farron. You know, I think I’m going to enjoy having this ace up my sleeve. Just think of all the arguments I’m going to win in future.” He winks.

Her face is flushed, and she’s frowning so hard that for a second he almost caves right then and there.  

“Trust me, Light. I know what I’m getting into.” He is prepared for her to argue but instead, the vice-like grip on his arm goes slack, her hand dropping to hang limply by her side.

 _She’s relenting?_ _Ah, I see...in the end, I unconsciously played the right trump card._

“Wait.” She casts a quick Bravery and Haste on him.

“Don’t worry about me, Light. There’s no way I’m not coming back. I still have all those arguments to win remember? Whatever’s in there, it’s strong. But _I’m_ stronger.”

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lightning's psychology is quite the thread to delve into. Girl thinks she’s emotionally mature, but her way of dealing with emotions is basically to sweep them under the rug and pretend they don’t exist. And when she’s forced to confront her feelings, she automatically defaults into OP (i.e. overprotective) mode. ‘Cause really, protecting is the only way she knows of loving someone.
> 
> Coming up, summon fight! (I think it’s pretty obvious which one, haha)


	19. Tempest

Chapter 19: Tempest

 

_Nothing is weaker than water; yet for overcoming what is hard and strong, nothing surpasses it._

.

 

Even with the direct route provided by Light’s ‘wind-tunnel’, and his strength and haste boosted by her strengthening charm, reaching the ‘heart’ of the storm still puts Noctis’ stamina to the test. Warping with his sword, he travelled fast, with liquidly-fluid motions. The storm’s radius stretched for miles, far longer than Light’s magic could reach. Several times he had to stop to regenerate the vortex channel, using his own wind magic and the motions she had shown him. It’s almost as if this is some kind of endurance test designed to drain his physical and magical reserves before the real fight had even begun.

Alone with his thoughts, it’s hard to keep his mind from wandering. What could be lying in wait at the heart of the storm? Is he in over his head? Had he over-estimated himself, in his eagerness to show Light what he is capable of, and to prove himself worthy of being his father’s son? Or does he really believe that he can defeat some god-like kraken that he knows nothing about except that it exerted absolute power over the rain and seas?

“Any fool can fight, but only the tough survive.” He imagines Regis stroking his greying beard, with the air of a wise old sage.

“And you’re the toughest guy out there, aren’t you dad?” The boy in his memory looks up at his father with admiring eyes, drawing a burst of laughter from the Lucien king.

“Son, you will never know how strong you are, until being strong is the only choice you have.”

“Right. Guess it’s time to find out what I’m really made of, huh pops?” The succession of warp strikes carry him deeper and deeper into the tempest until at last he reaches his destination.

The vortex-tunnel seals up behind him. A cursory glance at his surroundings reveals that he is standing at the threshold of a small land mass in the middle of a swirling whirlpool. Kinda puts the phrase ‘surrounded on all sides’ into context.

Turns out that kooky gunslinger was right after all. Despite the menacing winds and torrential rains that revolved around it, the epicentre of the storm is calm, with all but clear skies above and the lightest of drizzles falling drop by drop on his face.

But the sharpshooter was off his mark about one thing – the heart of _this_ storm is no safe place. The oppressive murderous intent is the first thing he senses; the din of the storm giving way to a terrible hissing, confirming his suspicions that he is not alone. And whatever monster or god he had trespassed on _definitely_ wanted him dead.  

It slithers – yes, slithers – into view, body materialising from thin air. No, not from air, but from the misty rain and the waters around him. The monstrous sea-serpent casts a leering glare at its uninvited and very much unwelcome guest. Now fully formed, he can see that it has an armour of titanium scales with barb-like dorsal fins running down its spine, and two batwing-like appendages unfurling from its sides.  

It is clear that this creature is the one responsible for the swelling waters and raging winds. Slit-like eyes regard him coldly, the currents swirling in time to each beat of its wings. An involuntary shiver runs through him. So this is what it feels like to be looking into the eye of a storm?

“Looks like I get to kick some scaly-butt. Must be my lucky day!”

The enemy sneers, hissing contemptuously. “Well, well. Look what we have here? A little whelp looking to meet his watery grave?”

“I came here looking for a fight, but I’m a reasonable man. Call off your waters, and no one needs to get hurt.” In the past, the snide remarks would have riled him up, but he surprises even himself by remaining cool and level-headed – for the most part.

“Insolent boy! I’m the almighty _Leviathan_. My storms have wrought terror for centuries. My waves have crushed cities, drowned the cries of millions. Who do you think you are?”

Oh well, at least Dad can’t say I didn’t give diplomacy a shot.

“Who am I? I am the son of Regis Lucis Caelum, 113th of his line. Heir to the throne of Lucis. And after today, _a demigod-killer_.” He throws in a smirk for good measure, just to see the look of pure outrage of the serpent’s face.

“You dare challenge the Lord of all Waters?”

“You don’t scare me. I eat sea-slugs like you for breakfast.”

“Enough of your impudence!” The serpent’s eyes are practically glowing red with rage. “We’ll see who has the last laugh. Sirens! Deal with this lippy brat for me. I’m going to enjoy watching him walk the plank.”

.

Giggling. Noctis whirls around. The flirting laughter is coming from the swirling waters around him. He grounds his teeth. What mindgames is that slippery bastard playing now?

The giggling fades, replaced by a song-like chorus of voices, coming at him from every angle.

“Oh, a cute one.”

“And a prince to boot!”

“It’s my turn, you had the last one.”

“He’s mine.” A deep sensuous voice silences the others. The creature that materialises before him can only be described as grotesque, with the body of a bird and a woman's head and torso, waddling on short webbed feet.

She sneers, offended – as any woman would be – by his semi-reviled expression.

At once an orb of light surrounds her, so bright that he has to raise his hand to shield his eyes for a second. When the glare clears, a gasp escapes his lips.   

Gone is the hideous creature. In her place, a young maiden, as beautiful as the bird-woman was grotesque. Dressed in a white floor-length gown that complements her fair and delicate features, she exudes grace and elegance. This is a woman who could turn the heads of every man in a room, and here she is looking at him like he is the only man that exists.

“Luna.” The name falls from his lips in a whisper.

“Noctis.” He almost flinches at the way she says his name – with a reverence that he doesn’t deserve. “Why did you leave? Why won’t you come back? Don’t you remember your promise?”

It’s a trick! His mind warns, but the forlornness in her eyes cuts at his heart.

_Luna...she has been waiting for me..._

She reaches out a hand to him. “Noctis, please, I need you. Come back with me.” He allows her to draw him toward her, wishing he could say anything to comfort and reassure her.

 _Luna always put her duty above herself, and yet here I am indulging in my own selfish desires._ The heaviness that had been weighing on him suddenly feels multiplied a thousand-fold; his guilt and shame compounded by the way Luna is looking at him right now with undisguised love and trust. What kind of man would he be to let this girl down? But...

_"Don’t worry about me, Light. There’s no way I’m not coming back.”_

“Luna, please understand, I...I can’t leave with you.” He bites his lip, shaking his head.

“No, you’re not real!”

It’s like a switch being flicked inside his head. He shoves her off, regaining his senses to find himself teethering at the edge of the whirlpool. Just two steps more and he would have...

“A girl looks at you like that and you have the heart to turn away?” ‘Luna’s’ voice echoes from behind him. “Perhaps you’re more heartless than I thought.”

He spins around, fists clenched. “Enough of your games!”

She ignores the threat. “Or perhaps the little prince’s heart belongs to another? Let me guess – _your little rose?”_ The voice that is coming out of Luna’s mouth is crass and scathing, her face twisting into a mocking sneer.

And then it shifts. Luna’s lovely and delicate face melting away, replaced by one with harder lines and sharper features. Her eyes flick open, smouldering like blue embers, turning their heated gaze on him.

The physique is different too – lithe and toned, with the noble bearing of a knight rather than that of a queen. Pink hair pools across a bare shoulder. She is still wearing that white dress, and the ache in his heart returns with a vengeance.

Maybe in another life, Light would have worn a white dress for him.

She presses up against him, arms snaking around his waist, one trailing down his spine and the other taking a firm hold over the nape of his neck. Her lips brush softly against his cheek.

“I want you, Noct. I’ve always wanted you.” She whispers, mouth inches away from his. She leans in, parting her lips willingly. Eos, how can he resist her like this?

He lets out a primal growl, tugging her toward him and sealing their lips. The kiss starts slow, tenderly, but quickly becomes rough and bruising, their mouths moving against each other ravenously, with an insatiable hunger. She guides his hands to the softness of her chest, eliciting an involuntary groan, and she takes the opportunity to slip her tongue into his mouth. She tastes like a heady mix of rose wine and some sort of forbidden fruit – inebriating and intoxicating.

If this is the closest he’s going to get to heaven, he’ll take it.

It’s getting harder and harder to breathe, yet he can’t tear his mouth away from hers. He never knew it was possible to _drown_ in a kiss.

Suddenly, her breath hitches, soft moans replaced by a gurgled choke.

“Nice try, almost got me there.” He twists the knife in fully before yanking it out of her back. “Light’s innocent. Even without her walls and her goddamn self-control, she would never seduce me like this.”

Enraged, and seemingly impervious to the pain, she lunges at him. Another jab, this time from the front, thrusting up until the blade is buried to the hilt before jerking it out again. Even that doesn’t put her down.

It would seem that Light’s body – even an imitation of it – wasn’t going to go down without a bitter struggle.

.

Lightning watches blankly as Noct is swallowed up by the swirling vortex. “I trust you.” She whispers, the words lending her the strength to tear her gaze away from his disappearing back, turning her focus toward the sprawling community of villages in the distance.

No time to waste, she has a flood to intercept.

A sharp crack and a brilliant flash. The lightning bolt spears a hole through the water elemental – a hulking mass of a tidal wave infused with artificial sentience, even if its only will is to obey its conjurer’s orders. The water seals itself up, before cresting and swelling to its full imposing height, sights remaining locked on the riparian villages.

_Tch. Not even going to give me the time of day, huh?_

It’s pretty obvious why she is being ignored. Frankly, she must look like a puny ant next to the gallonic beast. The size of her opponent doesn’t intimidate her; she’s fought adamatoises and long-guis and things that eat long-guis for breakfast. But can she protect the villages from this freak of nature?

_“Lightning can’t protect...”_

Again with that omnipresent nagging – _condemning_ – whisper at the back of her head.

She’d never been a good sentinel - probably the party’s worst during their travels together as L’cie - she makes no denial of that fact. But her years in Valhalla have taught her what it means to be a _knight_.

“Your fight. _Is with_ _me_.”

 _Provoke_ , the most basic of all sentinel skills. Maybe not the perfect execution – “needs a bit more shameless posturing and a gran ol’ shit-eating grin if y’know what I mean?” she imagines Fang’s thick Pulsian drawl and the huntress’ infuriating smirk – but good enough to serve its purpose.

Bringing her arms up, she crosses them in an ‘X’ over her head, like how she’d seen them do time and again in her memories. Legs shift apart, widening her stance to lower her centre of gravity, as her heels dig into the sloppy mud.

It goes against every instinct in her body. She has never relied on clunky things like shields or guards to protect herself; after all, wouldn’t it be better to just avoid taking the hit entirely? No, her philosophy has always been to evade, _elude_ and counter. In a dogfight, _speed_ is the key; and like her namesake, Lightning is brilliantly fast.

But now the sword has to be a shield.

The knight is pinned; if she moves from her square the piece behind her will be left open for the taking.

The soldier’s objective is to hold her ground or die trying.

_"When I look at her...I see a protector and a guardian.”_

A magic insignia flares at her feet. Around it, a wall of indestructible crystal stretches up and out in a hexagonal tessellated grid, forming a dam between the flood and its would-be casualties, just in time to catch the first wave that smashes into it.

Wave after wave, the brutal pounding is relentless. The impact of each blow is felt in the marrow of her bones; a shockwave that starts from her cranium and pulses through her body to end in the little bones of her feet. Nothing major is broken yet, she doesn’t think. Although the splintered fissures in the ground are probably a reflection of the hairline cracks that accumulate with each battering.

She wonders if it intends to pummel the ever-loving hell out of her until it has shattered all two hundred and six bones in her body; that is, if she doesn’t stroke out from massive brain haemorrhage first.

_I have to hit back. I can’t just stand here and take this._

Already she feels the trappings of a concussion coming on. She grits her swollen and bruised jaw, shaking stars out of her eyes. With her back against the ropes, there is only one thing she can do – _go_ _swinging_. Channelling her lightning into two massive ‘arms’, she strikes back at the tidal wave with heavy overhands and lancing uppercuts. It’s all very crude and brutish; nothing more than a match of wills in the guise of a slugfest.

But water is not to be underestimated. Though capable of acts of violent rage, it is also a master of patience and restrain, absorbing her blows, yielding ground, twisting and bending, breaking and reforming. And water always finds a way to go where it intends to go. Given enough time, water can wear away anything.

“Tch.”

But if she is already having such a hard time against the creation, how will Noct be faring against the master?

 _He’ll be fine._ There’s stubborn and there’s obstinate and then there’s Noct. That boy is nothing if not block-headed, headstrong enough to overcome anything that he sets his mind to.

But that same boy had been broken and crying in her arms just days ago. When she had glanced into his eyes then, it wasn’t affection or recklessness that she had seen, contrary to the old monk’s claims. No, those black pools were filled with grief and sorrow, assailed by self-doubts and regrets. The wound is still too fresh, raw and bleeding. Can he conquer his demons while having to fight a literal demigod, with those painful memories weighing down his sword?

“I’m stronger.” Noct had said, his last words to her were spoken with calm and assuredness. He showed no fear the storm – not the one around, nor the one within.

 _“I trust you.”_ She whispers again, willing the words to reach him.

.

Noctis has taken to the sky. Not to avoid the nauseating tang of blood that pervaded the air – he couldn’t; the red was all over him like a crimson cape – but because it was the only hope he had of maintaining an equal playing field against an adversary that exhibited telekinesis over water.

The sea-serpent had finally deigned to show itself and face him like a man. While upset over the death of its Siren, the demigod had revelled in the sadistic pleasure of seeing the young prince drenched in blood and staring in torment at the torn-up body before him, which had finally stopped convulsing now that it was fully exsanguinated of blood.

“This is what happens to little whelps who come to my lair seeking death. Your little girlfriend is just as meddlesome, the fool thinks she can hold back my flood. Maybe I’ll make her watch as I drown you, too bad you won’t get to hear her screams.” It taunted cruelly.

“You’re right.” Anger washed over him, his vision flashing red. “I do seek death."

 _"Yours_.”

The Armiger weapons zinged through the air in a pre-emptive strike. The waters surged, bashing aside the artillery barrage. A single sword escaped the carnage, glancing off a titanium scale. Noctis warped to it, striking again with a heavy backhand slash, barely leaving a scratch on the serpent’s armour. Stumbling back from the force of his own strike, he narrowly succeeds in body-swerving past a lashing whip of the serpent’s tail.  

 _Damn, nearly took my head off!_ Alarmed by the near brush with death on the first exchange of blows, he retreats a distance back, high into the sky.

“Running away, boy? Oh I see! _That was your big move, wasn’t it?_ ”

The mocking laughter still echoed in the air, amplified by the swirling whirlpool around them.

“My turn now.” The gushing waters blast up like an erupting geyser, splitting into multiple rocket-like jets that swarm towards him.

As fast as he is on his feet, there’s no way anyone can outrun a speeding torpedo. Fortunately, he isn’t a sitting duck on the ground. By continuously warping around in the air, Noctis has managed to create the illusion of flight; zipping around like a hummingbird, agilely dodging the attacks. The torrents are swift and relentless, fluidly twisting and turning with serpentine-like movements, pursuing him with the doggedness of a tracking missile. Multiple tracking missiles, to be exact.

Under pressure, the mind works quickly. Spinning around abruptly in mid-air, he retaliates with a blast of icy wind, freezing the nearest waterjet in place. The others split up, not about to fall for the same trick twice.

Landing in a crouch on top the massive claw of ice, he waits. They converge on him, homing in on their target from every direction in a coordinated assault.

“FI-RA-GA!” It’s a lesson he learned from the fight with Ilfrit. Water may extinguish fire, but not if the heat vapourises it first.

The air hums, thick with magic. Noctis can feel his blood pounding, waiting for his opponent’s next move. Hidden in the steamy mist, he can finally afford a much needed minute to catch his breath, which is currently coming in sharp pants and short gasps. He curses internally. How can he be this exhausted when the fight has barely begun?

He knows that he won’t be able to keep this up for much longer. Instead of waiting for an opening he has to create one. But how? Every time he rushes in, the waves blast him back. With an endless pool of resources that it can draw on to attack or defend itself, the sea-demon was like an impenetrable fortress. Even his warp strikes were useless against it.

Think, Noct! He implores himself. There has to be a way.

 _“Give up, boy. You can’t withstand the tempest.”_ The waters surge, issuing another lethal blow.

This time the attack isn’t swift, but ferocious; a mammoth wall of water as wide as the horizon, looming over him like the open jaws of a behemoth, angry white froth foaming at its lips as it prepared to swallow him whole.

Even if he had been operating on a full tank, freezing the entire wave would still be next to impossible. Trying to warp around or through it is just as insane, but another idea comes to him – striking the surface repeatedly with little burst of frost, creating a series of mini-steps for him to run up the face of the monstrous swell. It both terrifies and thrills him - this feeling of literally _walking on water_ , balancing on a razor’s edge, knowing that the slightest misstep would result in a wipeout that was definitely not going to be fun.

He takes the almost vertical climb at a flat-out run. As he nears the lip he feels his body listing heavily to the side. By now his calves are on fire and that’s nothing compared to the burning in his lungs, but he knows that he can’t stop for even a second.

“Speed counteracts balance.” Light always said, as if it was a maxim she lived her life on. “As long as you’re moving, you’re not falling.”

With a final lunge he leaps off the wave’s crest, brandishing his weapon – a massive _Zweihander_ , the largest in his arsenal, measuring almost six feet from pommel to point. The two-handed greatsword was said to be the sword of kings, much like the fabled Excalibur of legend. When swung powerfully it was capable of crushing even the heaviest of armour.

“You’re wrong – _I am_ _the tempest_.”

The smiting blow is met by a mighty whip of the serpent’s tail. The impact knocks him back, slamming hard onto the ground with a sickening crunch.

The viper looms over him, smiling imperiously; the formidable greatsword clattering to the ground by its side, Damascus steel blade snapped cleanly in two. In desperation, he fires off another volley of swords, which are knocked carelessly aside.

Another vicious swipe of the serpent’s tail. He doesn’t even have the strength to warp, barely managing to throw up a hastily conjured sword in the nick of time to parry the blow.

The lash sends him tumbling through the air, and he is forced to brake hard, stabbing his sword into the ground. The metal screeches, the bone-jarring jolt snapping his wrist, tearing ligaments and wrenching his shoulder out of its socket. 

He groans, curling on his side in a pool of his own blood, struggling to stay conscious. There’s a humming in his ears that he recognizes as the vibrations of the Armiger weapons orbiting around him; the appearance of the automatic defence system presaging him of his dire straits. Not that he isn’t already aware of that.

“Running away again? Is that all you can do?”

Noctis lies still, hidden behind the optical cloaking of the Armiger. The rain is falling heavily now, covering up the scent of blood. The cold droplets sting his face, or perhaps that’s just the shame; the guilt and frustration of failing once again.

“Aw, is he being a crybaby?” The brawny man smiles, extending a heavily tattooed arm down to the fallen prince.

_Gladio? What are you doing here? Am I hallucinating?_

“Tactless as usual, the King’s shield is.” The bespectacled man mock-sighs, pushing his glasses up to cover his scarred eyes. 

_Ignis! Your eyes!_

“A minor burn. Trifling.” A gloved hand is pro-offered to him. “I will follow you into the depths of hell, my King. This little scald is nothing.”

“Don’t forget about me!” A third hand joins the former two. “I got your back too, Noct! Now and always.”

He bites his lip, tears prickling his eyes.

The acerbic hissing continues. “Have you given up? How pathetic. I thought you’d be more entertaining than this. Maybe if you grovel on your knees, I’ll grant you the mercy of a quick death.”

“Noct.” Lightning flickers and flashes in the sky overhead. “ _I trust you._ ”

He smiles softly, drawing strength from her voice. Calling his father’s sword to him and driving the point into the ground, he uses it to leverage himself to his feet, body trembling from sheer effort alone.

“The tempest bows to no one. And neither does _the_ _king_.”  

“I’m done running.” He raises his sword, facing down the sea’s wrath. “If I’m going down, I’m taking your scaly ass with me.”

The sea-demon roars, the currents swirling and crashing around him, merging into another massive tidal wave. “Fool! You believe your strength to be on par with my waves?”

Noctis closes his eyes, dropping his hands to his sides and yielding control of the spectre weapon to his mind alone. The blade hovers in the air, lining up its sights and taking careful aim at the enemy.

“No. _I’m stronger._ ”

The sword whizzes through the air with the swiftness of a whirling torpedo, meeting the sea’s onslaught in a clash of two uncompromising forces. He can sense mind and steel blending into one, as if the blade is his _will_ given form. The sword responds, piercing through the black wall of water, refusing to be swept aside. He picks his mark carefully, aiming where the titanium scales are the thickest, protecting the vital organ underneath.

“This is my true strength.”

With a final thrust, the armour cracks. Indomitable will driving the blade all the way through. One shot, one kill.

By now the howl of the sea has reached a fevered pitch, drowning out the blood-curdling shrieks. He registers neither. Unconsciousness is already claiming him; his mind reflexively shutting down, the strain of going into mental overdrive literally frying his brain and turning it to mush. He doesn’t even feel the crunch of shattering bones as the tidal wave plummets into him full force.

And then the world dissolves into darkness.

 

.

_No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. You just come out the other side._

  
  
_Or you don't._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Noctis chapter that’s been a long time coming, with an essential Lightning interlude as well. 
> 
> Anyone who has played XIII knows that Light is a terrible sentinel, with really only the move ‘elude’ as her signature SEN skill. And that’s pretty depressing when you take into account her backstory and especially that infamous ‘Lightning can’t protect’ line. What can I say, girl’s got issues. 
> 
> The Sirens are a creation of my own, just thought that some mind-fucking (with cameos by fake Luna and Lightning) would be more satisfying to write than him taking out a nest of Sahagins. 
> 
> Next chapter is essentially part 2 of this doubleheader, just cause I’m not done beating up on these guys yet.


	20. The drowned ones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to Imo, who loves Lightis angst almost as much as I do.

 Chapter 20: The drowned ones

 

Of all the characteristics of water, how could she have forgotten how much of a slippery bastard it is? Lightning curses as her right foot slips on the sloppy ground, forcing her to break her stance for the first time. The tidal wave strikes, slipping between the rift in her defences before she can recover. The force slams hard into her leg. The limb buckles, caving in with an audible ‘crack’ and a hot line of fire. It drops her to a knee, crimson lightning coiling protectively around her, as she prepares for the finishing blow to rain down.

It never comes.

From above, the body of water crashes over her like a thunderous waterfall, swiftly met by the oncoming tide as it rushes up from the horizon. The deluge engulfs her on all sides, washing her off her feet. When she opens her eyes, it is to an underwater world. The swirling current tosses her end over end like a rag doll, trailing a stream of blood in its wake.

When the impromptu roller-coaster ride from hell finally comes to a halt, the sea around her is dark; a sign of how far down the undertow has dragged her.

Her limbs are almost too numb to move, as she drifts exhausted in the silent watery depths. And then it speaks. “You fought well, one with the will of water. Come, I’ll take you up.”  

A glimpse of light catches her eye, just as a liquid cool touch grasps her by the wrist. A cold draught washes over her, her heart clenching in her chest. She recognizes that light. How could she not? The petering dim of a dying star; followed on its heels by an explosive flash, like a bolt of lightning in the night sky – the unmistakable light of a cor reviving its master.

“Wait!” She chokes out, gulping mouthfuls of seawater; but the cry is drowned out by the gushing in her ears as she feels herself rocketing toward the surface.

Bursting through the water’s face amidst a spray of froth and whitewater, she gasps hungrily at the salty air, relieving the ache in her lungs but not her heart.  

“Please,” she pleads, head bobbing just above the waves lapping at her face. “There is another. My companion...my partner.”

The waters swell. “We are aware of the one who bested the Lord of All Waters in single combat; but we lend our assistance only to those who have withstood _us_.”

What is it with supernatural beings and being utter pricks that can never be counted on to do anything useful? Was it in their genetic makeup, or did it come with the job title? She can’t even muster up the energy to be pissed off, or to dispute that inane logic, knowing that she doesn’t have even a second to waste here.

“Then take me back down.”

“So be it.” The sea responds, affording her none of its former courtesy as it trawls her back into its bitter cold depths.  

“You’re on your own now.”

 _No, I’m not._ He’s down here somewhere. And I’m either coming up with him or not at all.

Through the salty sting in her eyes, she spots that dimming point of light. At once she understands why he isn’t making any effort to swim to the surface. His arms are flailing forward wildly – not like a drowning swimmer, but like he is trying to grasp at something just beyond his reach. His lips move, but only bubbled gasps escape them. Through the faint glow that illuminates his features, she can just make out the look of utter desperation on his face, replaced by horror, and then crumbling in anguish.

The flailing stops. His body twitches once, twice. And then it hangs there, still and lifeless, sinking away into the blackness. She lets out a bubbled choke of her own, kicking even more frantically against the invisible current. The dying light flickers once more and then flashes bright.

When his eyes blink open again, it is clear that the _intrusion_ has no intention of releasing the prey caught in its net anytime soon; its hold over him remaining just as strong as the current’s hold over her, despite her onerous efforts to break free; cruelly content to let her watch him drown over and over again.

“Aero!” A tiny puff of air bursts from her palm, like the last sputter of an aerocycle running on fumes. But it is enough to propel her through the last span of distance between them.

She grabs the sides of his face, pressing their lips together and forcefully exhaling a stream of bubbles until her lungs make their grievances known. She tugs him close, making sure that she has her arms wrapped securely around him with his back against her chest, before looking up and kicking for the surface.

Her vision is beginning to narrow, the soft halo of light from above dimming rapidly instead of getting brighter. Cold water rushes into her lungs as she loses the battle with the overwhelming need to breath. Perhaps her brain is playing tricks on her in its oxygen-starved state, but despite her woefully weak kicks, it feels like they are rising _twice_ as fast.

The surface couldn’t have come a moment sooner. Her burning lungs are finally allowed to draw a much-needed breath of air. She chokes and coughs, hacking frothy stuff from her lungs, and it scares her that Noct isn’t doing the same. She leans him against her shoulder, doing her best to keep his head above water as she frantically searches for sight of the shore.

It isn’t far off. Bobbing amongst the choppy waves, she finally realises what is happening. All around them the waters are receding rapidly, as if someone had pulled the plug on this massive bathtub. The retreating sea delivers them straight to the water’s edge.

The bank is shallow. With the last of her waning strength, she manages to push him up onto dry ground. For a long moment she hangs there, trembling arms too weak to pull her own body weight out of the water. The sea swells for the final time, giving her a little nudge as she draws on every last bit of will she possesses to haul herself up after him.

“Noct!” She drags herself over to his motionless form, flopped face down on the dirt.

 _He’s so cold!_ The tinge of blue to his lips is perhaps the only identifiable colour on his pallid face. She rolls him onto his back, searching for signs of life. A faint pulse on his neck, slow – too slow! – and barely palpable. No chest rise either, just the ghost of indiscernible breaths on her cheek as she brings her face close down to his.

His cor! She gropes at his shirt and pants, literally patting him down, swearing a string of curses at the clothing designer who thought it was cool to have so many goddamn pockets and zippers.

Where is that damn thing? She gives up with a growl, muttering a couple more choice-words that would have made the most hardened soldier blush.

Looks like she’ll just have to do this the old-fashioned way.

She leans forward, pressing her lips onto his ice-cold ones.  

 _You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay. I got you. I just need you to breathe._ _C’mon Noct, breathe!_ _Come back to me. Please wake up. I promise I’ll let you sleep in for as long as you want to in future. Damnit, why won’t you wake up?_

Her eyes are burning, her vision a muddled blur; whether it’s from the seawater dribbling off her matted fringe into her eyes or from something more organic, she can’t quite tell.  

In truth, she is near collapse herself – strength sapped, body lying half-draped over his; barely even capable of raising her head up between breaths, resting her forehead on his for a second, before drawing another breath and sealing their lips together again. And again. And again.

.

For once, Noctis was having a good dream. Lying curled up under the shelter of a thousand-year oak tree that stood vigil over the Lucis palace gardens, his head resting on a soft grassy mould, as the enchanting scent of half-bloomed roses wafted in the air, casting a hypnotic spell over him.

That is until those pesky raindrops started falling on him. He screws up his face, rolling over onto his side. It’s no use – the wet drops simply sliding down his cheek and over slightly parted lips. They have a salty taste, with a tang of something metallic.

What kind of bizarre rain is this? If it’s Gladio’s doing, boy is he going to have a word or two with his shield when this is over.

“Wake up, Noct.” The roses implore.

What the –? Are those roses talking now?

“Please?” The brush of a petal against his cheek.

There’s a rite of passage that every burgeoning young man goes through at some point in his life, the prince of Lucis being no exception – the morning where you wake up feeling like roadkill after almost totaling your dad’s car. But this, this is a hundred times worse. He literally feels like death warmed over, half a man and half a ghost.

He opens his eyes wearily, eyelids fluttering open not to his father’s exasperated palm-on-face-yes-I’m-so-glad-you’re-safe-but-boy- do-I-hope-you-are-feeling-guilty-as-fuck look; but to eyes the colour of the sea after a storm.

“Hey there, sleeping beauty.” Light whispers.

It all comes back in a flood. The fight against Leviathan – the one he lost, and the one he won. And the girl who trusted him – the one he could not save, and the one he refuses to give up on.

“We won?” He croaks out, cringing at how frail his voice sounds.

She strokes his cheek, with a little smile and a nod.

Noctis tries to put on a triumphant grin, but all he manages is a weak smile. He tilts his head back, looking up at her from where she has his head cradled in her lap. Her face is a mask of bruises. Blood still oozed steadily from one side of her scalp, staining half that mask a dark maroon red. Her eyes are a different shade of crimson, still brimming with fresh tears. He curses himself for not having the strength to reach up and catch them as they slipped down her cheek.

“Does it hurt?”

She laces her hand with his, bringing it up to her face, as if reading his thoughts. “Not any more than seeing you go through that.”

He cups her cheek, tangling his fingers in her hair, and brushing his thumb tenderly over the large swell under her eye. “Maybe I’m just sorry that someone messed up this pretty face.”

She looks away, a dark shadow on her face. “How can you laugh? I thought...I thought I had lost you. That whatever you saw down there had broken you; stolen a piece of your soul; made you question if you ever wanted to open your eyes again.”

“You’re speaking from experience.” It isn’t even a question. “Was that what _you_ saw? In the flames?”

She shakes her head sadly. “I saw my home. Bodhum. In all its splendour. It took everything I had to walk away.”

He smiles. “I saw my home too, untouched by war and strife.”

“I _am_ going back. But not like this.”

“And besides, your lips on mine, how could I not come back to that?”

She flushes, turning away, but he tightens his grip on her hand, jerking her back to him with strength that surprises even himself.

“I fell for a storm. I never thought I would get out unscathed.”

She isn’t moved by his romantic words. “You foolishly charged into the storm of the century to prove that point?”

He puts on his best smile – the most fetching and charming smile a half-drowned prince can master.  

“So, does this mean I’m moving back in?”

 

.

_People say that you can’t live without love; but I think oxygen is more important._

.

 

Someone stumbles. Was it him? Or perhaps it was her bumped knee giving way once more. It’s kinda hard to tell with them clutching on to each other like an elderly couple in their twilight years, backs bent, knees wobbling with every step. Bottom line, _one_ of them stumbles – which one was besides the point – and that’s how _both_ of them ended up pitching face first into the dank earth once again.

Lightning sighs audibly. Clearly this isn’t working. They have barely made it fifty paces inland. With a heavy sigh she acknowledges the inevitable – that they are going to be stuck out here tonight, at the mercy of the elements and the not-so-friendly wildlife.

But with limited options, all she can do right now is to haul them to the relative shelter of a fallen cedar tree, propping Noct up against its hollowed-out trunk.

She manages to conjure up a tiny flame on her wrist, nothing larger than the size of a birthday candle, and so delicate that it will probably get snuffed out the moment one of them so much as sneezes. But the sight of the nascent flame brings a smile to Noct’s face. He reaches over to cup his hands around it, entranced by the flickering light. And perhaps if she can scrounge up some driftwood, this little one may soon be transformed into a rousing fire.

Although he is still shivering something fierce, he no longer looks like he is two seconds from giving up the ghost. There is at least some colour back on his face, and his chattering lips are no longer that frightful blue.

“Noct, you got to take your shirt and pants off.”  She urges.

“Light, as tempting as that is, I don’t think I am up to _delivering the goods_ right now.”

Her eyebrow twitches. “If you have the energy to make silly innuendos, then perhaps you can make some effort to dry yourself up instead of lying there like an invalid, freezing your ass off.”

He makes a couple of half-hearted attempts to pull his top off, before throwing in the towel and looking up at her with Bambi eyes.

She sighs, reaching for the hem of his shirt to divest him of his wet clothes.

“So, our _first time_ is going to be like this huh?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. The tough-guy act doesn’t fool her – she knows he’s way more embarrassed about this then he’ll let on. But she doesn’t call his bluff as she methodically strips him down to his boxers.

“What about you? You’re _wet_ too aren’t you?”

Maybe she should have left him at the bottom of the ocean.

She makes short work of her own garments, ignoring the protests of her aching and battered body, which can literally be described as one giant bruise.  _Tch_. She hides her semi-wounded pride behind a reflexive scowl. The hideous appearance doesn’t bother her – she is used to wearing her battle scars like a badge of honour – except when it comes off looking like she got her rear-end kicked in during the fight.

“That watery bastard sure did a number on you.” Noct comments, with a frown. There’s something about the way he is looking at her unabashedly, like he has seen it all before; and instead _she_ is the one getting all flustered like a little schoolgirl with a crush. She scowls harder, annoyed at herself for being self-conscious about this, letting him turn the tables on her.   

“I guess it’s a good thing you’ve always had a thick skull.” He quips, chuckling at his own joke.

“You’re one to talk.” She grumbles under her breath, busying herself with draping their sodden clothes over a low-hanging branch.

When she looks back, Noct is still staring at her through wet floppy bangs, looking oddly content given their current situation. Leaning back, he makes himself as comfortable as possible against the hard wood, then spreads an arm out alongside, tapping at the juncture between his chest and shoulder with his other hand, the invitation clear.

She runs her hands up and down her arms, brushing off profusions of goosebumps blossoming on her skin; but her traitorous body gives in to the cold. She drops down beside him, curling into their shared heat. He tucks her close, resting his head on top of hers with an almost blissful sigh. It scares her – how the broken pieces of them fit so perfectly together, like they were meant to be a whole; two broken things trying to fix each other.

“Noct?”

“Hmm?”

“Why didn’t you swim?” It’s a question that has to be asked, because he obviously isn’t going to come clean on his own. She can’t give him closure, but she knows from very personal experience that bottling all of it up inside under the pretence that ‘everything is fine’ will only add salt to an already painful wound.

“And miss out on some mouth-to-mouth action?” 

“Are you baiting me?”

“I let her down.”

It bewilders her – how he can go from a silly dorky boy to a man of a thousand sorrows in the time it takes her to roll her eyes.

He exhales a long breath. “You were right – I did give up...for a minute there I...it...it got too much to bear.”

“But the timeout is over, I’m ready to get back in there and fight like I’ve never fought before.” He gives her hand a reassuring squeeze. “You know, you saved me back there.”

“She saved you too didn’t she? Did you...love her?”

“I don't know...maybe. She meant a lot to me. I owed it to her.”

“She believed in me, when I couldn’t believe in myself. They all did. They always had my back, stood by my side, fought for me when I was down for the count; when I couldn’t fight for myself.”

“I’m a lucky guy, aren’t I?”

He turns into her, snuggling closer and rearranging her arms around him. Satisfied, he lets out a sleepy sigh, nuzzling his face into her hair as if she is his personal pillow.

“So this is what contentment feels like?” He murmurs, smile never leaving his lips.

.

“You two should be counting your lucky stars that you survived that storm.”

“Oh shut it, Bert. Cut the lovebirds some slack. They’re young and in love! We’ve all been there before.”  

Noctis huddles further into the woollen blanket, wedging himself into a corner of the chocobo-driven wagon, feeling a little queasy from all its rocking motions. He already misses having a soft body to lean on, but at least he is no longer shivering something fierce or exhibiting like signs of hypothermia. Up front holding the reins, ‘Bert’ is still absorbed in his little tirade of disapproval.

“This is a dying world; everyone here is prepared for the end. But that’s no excuse to go round tempting fate by being out in that freak storm. Honestly, kids these days! More hormones than sense...”

He is more than a little relieved when they were finally dropped off at the town’s inn, with advice to “get a room”. The innkeeper had taken one look at them and promptly set them up in a single, tossing him the keys with an insinuating grunt. Light looked like she had something to say about that, but found herself being dragged upstairs before she could get a word in. He slams the room’s door behind them, silencing the not-so-subtle laughter and whispering.

He suspects it might be the ‘naked except for their underwear and a borrowed blanket’ that was influencing everybody’s unfounded assumptions about them. Or in Bert’s case, the ‘do-you-mind?’ glare he had given the man when the search party had first stumbled upon them. In his defense, they _were_ interrupting an intimate moment, just not the kind of intimacy everyone was expecting.

He finds a spare bathrobe in the closet, donning it appreciatively. The fabric is a little rough and scratchy, but beggars can’t be choosers. He can hear water running from inside the bathroom as he flops face down onto the room’s only bed, groaning as his sore body sinks into the mattress.

“I ran a bath for you.” Light emerges outfitted in a similar garb to his.

The thought of water sends a shudder up his spine. “Bath can wait. C’mon.” He taps the empty space next to him.

She hesitates. “I shouldn’t. I’ll get it dirty.”

“You’re kidding me.” He gives her a deadpan look. “That’s the lamest excuse I’ve heard. You saved this bed from becoming a piece of driftwood in a flood. I think you’ve earned the right to get it dirty.”

“I’m not tired.”

 _“Light_.”

They both know what she’s really bothered by. Though left unsaid, it’s obvious that they are both thinking it – _that night_ , and what happened the last time they were in this exact position. If not for her bumped knee, she would probably be pacing the room like a caged lioness, or maybe she would have high-tailed it out of here by now. The minutes pass by agonizingly. Finally, she sighs.

She stays well within her side of the bed, scooting up to the edge and rolling onto her side, back toward him, hugging her arms across her chest.

“I’m sorry.” There it is. Those two little words that she’s never been too proud or cowardly to say. He smiles.

“You got scared. I understand.”

“I hurt you. I threw you out, chased you away. Just like I did with Serah. What if...I hurt you again?”

The only thing she has ever been afraid of is _herself_. Every time he thinks back to that night – every time he pictures those icy blue eyes on a face he can’t even recognize – he doesn’t see a fearsome monster; only a frightened girl. He has seen Light at her coldest and her warmest; has seen her fury and her restrain, her strength and her brokenness. But that was the only time he had ever seen her eyes wide with terror and her entire being tremor with fear.

You say you trust me. But can you trust yourself? I forgive you. But do you forgive yourself?

When will you stop using the past against you?

Maybe Light is right, about fate that is. It is – has always been – _theirs to decide_.

He bolts out of bed, stalking to the other side and scooping her up bridal style. Before she can make head or tail about what is happening, he warps them across the room, kicking open the bathroom door and shouldering his way into the stall.

The warmth of the bath has long been lost to the cool evening’s air, fogging up the shower mirror in a sheen of condensate. He dumps her unceremoniously in the tub, getting in behind her. Some water sloshes out. Damn its cold, no wonder Light’s cursing up a storm.

But if this is the only way to get it through to her thick skull...

“Hey now, that slur on my ancestors was uncalled for.”

“Noct, you bastard –”

He wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her back against him; a reversal of their positions in the water. The message is clear – _I won’t let you drown_.

_Not in your fears, not in your demons. I won’t let you._

She doesn’t say a word, stubbornly refusing to face him; not even when they are back in bed, tucked under the covers with him still spooned against her.

And then, slowly and tentatively and without turning around, she curls an arm behind her back.

She’s letting him in! She’s choosing to face her demons. He grasps her hand, pressing their palms together and lacing his fingers through hers. Just holding her hand like this again is enough to make his heart smile.  

She’s possibly the bravest thing he has ever seen. But courage isn't the absence of fear. She needs time, time to come to terms with her past, to accept it and move on. They have both been through so much. They have struggled, suffered, at times barely keeping afloat amongst the treacherous waves which seem determined to drown them.

But she reached out for him, and he reached back to her.

The wounds from their past are still too deep and festering. But he wants so much to believe that she is the one who can heal him, and that he is the one who can save her.

 

.

_They say that two drowning people can’t save each other._

_I say we prove them wrong._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just when I thought I couldn’t do better than killing off my MC twice in one chapter - it’s only implied in text but Noct did drown multiple times while seeing Luna’s ‘death scene’ over and over until Light could get to him.
> 
> This chapter brings the word count on this fic to 60k, so this is officially my first novel-length work (well, this is my first fic of any sort, so any milestone is a first for me)!
> 
> Lastly, a small PSA to any divers out there, always be safe and never flout the rules of a safe ascent, unless of course you are in a life or death situation like our intrepid couple here, or would like to spend some time in a hyperbaric chamber.


	21. Fever dreams and frowns

Chapter 21: Fever dreams and frowns

 

Noctis dismisses the Armiger weapons with a flick of his wrist, collapsing onto a grassy mould at the edge of the grounds. He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his palms into them while rubbing little circles around his throbbing temples. ‘Headache’ sounds too trivial a term to describe the literal pounding in his skull. Perhaps the weather is getting to him? After a few days of convalescence, followed by a few more of hard travel, the duo had finally made it back to base only to find themselves in the middle of a blistering heat wave that had swept through camp. Even the battlegrounds were baking in the sweltering heat.

Seriously, this is the reward he gets for defeating the Loch-Ness monster from hell? Did the planet have to take his words so literally when he said that he didn’t want to see another drop of water ever again? What is it with omnipotent beings and being unable to take a joke?   

Footsteps approach. Light tosses him a canteen, which he thirstily brings to his lips, guzzling down the cool liquid in eager gulps. If he had been any more clear-headed, perhaps he would have noticed the twitch of her eyebrows.

Only then does he realise that the flask had been half-empty to begin with. Does that mean that she had taken a drink out of it first before offering it to him? This time, when he brings the bottle to his lips, he closes his eyes, imagining the feeling of her lips brushing against his.  

Thankfully no one was going to question the rubescent flush on his face.

“Alright, spill. The two of you have been acting strange, even by _your_ standards. Something must have happened while you guys were away.” Vaan plops down beside him, wagging an accusing finger in his face.

“You’re never out of each other’s sights. Even in the thick of battle you keep sneaking glances at her, like you’re looking for an excuse to warp to her side. And she’s no better either. If she’s not watching your back like a hawk, then she’s mauling through everything within ten feet of you like an adamantine bear defending her cubs. And she keeps eyeballing you and frowning, like what’s up with that?”

“Oh. How was she frowning at me?”

Vaan screws up his face, confused at the question. “Err, she was making an expression where the eyebrows are drawn together, and the forehead wrinkles. You know, _frowning_?”

He shakes his head, chuckling to himself. “Nah, that’s just her version of a poker face. She frowns at everything so no one can tell what she is really thinking. But there are subtle differences. Once you’re aware of them, she’s as easy to read as a children’s book.”

“Look.” He gestures over. Although engaged in conversation with Seph, Light’s brow is creased in a deep frown. “This is her version of contemplative. See the way her left eyebrow twitches every few seconds? It’s a subconscious tick she does whenever she is deep in thought.”

“And when she’s frowning but her eyes are soft and her head is tilted slightly to the side, that’s her saying ‘I’m happy, but I don’t do smiles so I’ll frown instead’.”

“How ‘bout when her eyes are narrowed and her brow is knitted as tight as a knot, and her stare gets a little unnerving ‘cause it looks like she’s not even blinking.”

“Oh, that’s when you got to watch out. She only does that when she’s really mad. Or when I try to goad her into a smile or a ‘happy frown’, and she’s having none of it. Sometimes there’s this dark shadow on her face, and her breathing gets a little heavier. That’s when I know she’s really, _really_ mad at me.”

“Yea? ‘Cause she’s looking that way at you right now.”

“What?” He swings around, the sudden movement causing his head to reel. Huh, why are there three Lights staring at him? It looks like they are walking toward him but he is having difficulty focusing with all these floaty spots in his vision. He wants to go to her – or is it them? – but his feet feel so heavy, like they are shackled to the ground, which is currently spinning in circles around him.

“You okay, buddy?” Vaan’s voice sounds distant and hollow. “You’re looking a little spaced out, and you’re wobbling quite a bit on your feet.”

_Noct!_

Weird. Why am I on my back and staring at the sky?

_Noct!_

Light? Is that you?...Are you calling me?...Where are you?

The glare of the sun is suddenly replaced by a familiar pair of ember blue eyes, burning with the intensity of a thousand stars. Her lips are moving but they aren’t producing a sound, and she is frowning so hard in that adorable way that he knows is reserved only for him.

He smiles.

“You’re...worried...about me. I can tell...by your...frown.”

A cool hand brushes against his cheek. He nuzzles into it.  

“If...I black out...now. Will you...kiss...me...again?”

A pity he doesn’t get to hear her answer.

.

 _Cold!_ So cold. This feeling – it’s as if every last bit of warmth has been leeched from his body. He feels numb all over; even the biting pain in his hands and feet that felt like his digits were being sawed off has dulled. All he can do is shiver uncontrollably and wait for the...

 _Fire!_ Now it feels like he is being raked over coals. His skin is burning off, followed by flesh, and then bones; his body charring and turning to ash. And just when he thinks that the pain will end, there is that terrible cold again.

“Why won’t his fever break?”

Altissia. The altar. Ardyn standing over Luna, watching the life seep from her eyes as blood seeps from the hole in her chest. “Get away from her, you monster!” He screams. The man pauses, turning around with a cruel smirk spreading across his face – _Noctis’_ face. “I’ll show you a monster.” At once he sees himself, covered in blood that is not his own, thrusting the knife again and again into Light’s body. “No! Stop!” The plea falls on deaf ears, drowned out by the peals of Ardyn’s laughter.

“Noctis?” He stumbles round, tracks of tears intermingling with the blood streaks on his face. “Dad!” His father’s only answer is the unsheathing of his sword from its scabbard. “ _Are you ready, Noctis?”_ “I’m ready”, he hears himself say. He closes his eyes. Cold steel pierces into his chest. Finally, it is over.

“I think his breathing has evened out.”

His footsteps resonate in the dark room, illuminated only by the soft glow of the crystalline figurine before him. It looked more like a Hellenistic sculpture cast from marble, a peerless masterpiece commissioned as a tribute to some goddess or deity. Few would have guessed the dark reality behind this statue’s ravishing beauty – that it wasn’t a work of art, not even a tomb, but a self-imposed prison, a living human encased in crystal.

The body is nude; he can’t decide if he wants to cover her nakedness or if he wants to trace his hands over the curves and contours that give the hard crystal the illusion of softness. He settles for tracing the scars on her hands, and then it finally hits home. _She’s in there!_ Oh God, how long has she been in there for? Long enough that she’d forgotten the feeling of human touch? Or the feeling of his hand over hers?

In repose her face looked relaxed; finally getting the rest she deserves. Had the Gods been kind enough to grant her a dreamless sleep? Or was she tormented by nightmares she could never wake from? He doesn’t even want to think of the possibility that she could be conscious in there; alone in a place where no sound or light can reach, unable to speak, or move, or feel. Did she think of him often? Did it bring her any comfort or solace?

He reaches a trembling hand up to her face.

_“You said that fate is ours to decide. Light...how can this be our fate?”_

.

He sleeps for days, fitfully, drifting in and out of consciousness. When he does open his eyes, it’s almost always to a concerned frown.

“Go back to sleep.” The gentle urging is met with a vehement shake of his head. The frown deepens.

“I’ll read to you.” Propping herself up against the headboard, she retrieves a book from the bedside drawer, flipping it open to where they last left off.

Just as she is in everything else, Light is strict and firm in her care, making sure he finishes the awful broth she calls medicine down to the very last drop. He doesn’t know what scared him more – the nightmares, the bitter draught, or the first time he woke up to an empty room and a note with the words ‘gone to the grounds, be back tonight’ written in Light’s scratchy penmanship.

Yes, the worst of the illness was over, but would it have killed her to keep him company for a little longer while he recuperated? He isn’t asking for much – just her staying by his side, reading to him; the sound of her voice dispelling those chilling visions born from his fevered dreams. Faking distress with pitiful wheezes and coughs only led to more force feeding of that foul brew, and Light tucking him back into bed with a stern frown.

He is beginning to feel a certain commiseration for Serah. Though the girl had never once expressed resentment – only a slight forlornness – at her older sister’s misguided sense of responsibility and her inability to reconcile it with the more basal human desires. And now he is sharing in the consternation and exasperation that the younger Farron must have felt growing up, having to deal with this complete _baka_ , and her insistence on taking everything upon herself.

“You just recovered, stay in bed today. I’ll fight for us.”

 _Us?_ So she does see them as that. Partners – that’s what they are, or at least, that’s what he thought they were until he was unduly sidelined by this ‘little’ flu bug. It should be them together, side-by-side, back-to-back; fighting against the world, fighting against the odds, fighting against their _fate_.

“I feel fine, fresh as a daisy! C’mon, I can’t keep lying here and collecting dust. Look –” He does a warp strike. “What do you think?”

She looks impassively at the ill-fated furniture that lay in two severed pieces on the floor. “I think you should listen to me.”

He doesn’t.

He is a step off his game, and it shows; and with them being at loggerheads, so too is their synchrony. The resonance between them was broken; their strikes no longer complementing, but clashing with each other's.

But he isn’t the one paying the price for it. When she lunges in front of him for the n-th time, taking the full blow of Ultimecia’s maelstorm, something inside him just snaps. _So much for being partners..._

He pushes, she pushes back.

“Why are you always so reckless?”

“Oh _I’m_ the reckless one now!?” Her body has just finished ‘re-spawning’ a hot second ago, but already she is back on her feet, crossing lean arms over her chest, dark frown fully back on her face. “I’m only trying to look out for your stubborn ass!”

“You just don’t get it.” He spats. “You know, I feel sorry for your sister. After everything she went through, you still don’t get what she was trying so hard to tell you.”   

He doesn’t have Serah’s patience. And sometimes the best way to mend a break that healed the wrong way is to break it again and set it right. Still, playing the Serah card is a low ball, twisting the knife in her heart.

“How dare you!?” She pales, all the blood draining from her face before rushing in at once. “My sister should never have had to fight. I failed to protect her, that’s why she...she...”

“She wanted to – she wanted to protect you!”

“She shouldn’t. That’s my job.” She says coolly.

“Well, I’m not your sister, so stop treating me like her!”

“You’re my – ” She bites her lip.

_Your what?! What am I to you?_

“I don’t need you to look after me.” It hurts him, more than she’ll ever know, to be the cause of that shattered look on her face.

“I want to look after you.” Is what he wants to say. But she is already out of sight, disappearing in a flash of her namesake, not even pausing to retrieve the survival knife that had fallen from the holster on her thigh.  

Picking the switchblade off the floor, he turns it over in his hand, flicking the knife out of its sheath. ‘To C, from S – Happy birthday, Sis!’ The blood freezes in his veins as he scans over the words and the date engraved next to them.

 _Shit_.

.

“Worst b’day ever.” The shot glass is brought to her lips and tipped back once more, its liquory contents searing a hot line down Lightning’s throat, and igniting a warm flush on her cheeks.

“Never would have pegged you as a lightweight.” The bottle of firewhisky was brusquely confiscated from her hands before she could line up another shot.

“I’m not drunk!” The patented scowl only earns a look of amusement from the black-haired bartender.  

“Only drunk people say that, missy.”

Her cor sniggers from where it had been unceremoniously dumped on the bartop counter. “Even you are mad at me?” Accusing blue eyes are framed by a chagrined frown. “How was I wrong?”

Silence. That damn rock is giving her the cold shoulder!

“Aren’t you supposed to be _my_ cor? Why are you always taking _his_ side?” She sulks miserably.

“Poor dear. Is that grumpy girl overworking you again?” The traitorous rock has the gall to mewl pitifully, before tinkling in appreciation as Tifa runs a polishing cloth over it, wiping off the smudges and stains and restoring its glowing shine.

Lightning sucks in a breath. It always felt weird when someone so much as touched her cor, even affectionately like Tifa is doing now. The one time Noct had picked it up with nothing more than the intention of handing it back to her, it had left her feeling out of sorts for hours with a shuddery and tingling but not altogether unpleasurable feeling. Best not to think about what that implied.

Satisfied, the bartender sets the crystal down, moving on to other glassware behind the counter, blissfully oblivious to her customer’s discomfort.

“So are you going to call him, or do I have to do it for you?”

“Why would I call Noct?”

Tifa giggles. “I didn’t say you have to call _Noct_. Besides, isn’t he nursing a cold? I’m sure you have other friends who can escort your drunk-ass home.”

“I’m leaving.” She snatches up her cor. “On my own.”

 _Two steps._ Two measly steps is all she manages, before her right foot somehow trips over her left, pitching her into a graceless nose-dive, and the only thing that saves her from cracking her skull on the floor is the well-toned chest that she is currently face-planted in.

“Geez Light, at least get a room before throwing yourself at him.” Tifa mock-gripes. “Oh hi Noct.” The bartender adds, addressing the owner of the toned chest. “Light’s been in a mood tonight. And I think it has something to do with you.”

“Shut up!” She hisses, trying to push herself off him.

Noct grips her by the shoulders, steadying her on her feet. Once he is sure she isn’t going to keel over again, he steps back, reaching over to retrieve her cor from where it had clattered to the floor and rolled off into a corner. His fingers close around it, and she almost passes out right there and then.

“Come with me.” He grabs her hand with his free one, dragging her out of the tavern.

.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Don’t peak, it’s a surprise!” He admonishes, pulling the crude blindfold further over her eyes. Satisfied, he grabs her wrist again, dragging her along behind him.

“I hate surprises.” She informs him.

Her cor chimes excitedly, singing a completely different tune. To her chagrin, Noct had held the rock hostage until she had pleaded and begged him to return it to her, which he had, in exchange for her going along with this ‘surprise’.

“Your cor is more honest than you are.” Noct chuckles, giving her hand a firm tug to urge her to keep up with him. She grits her teeth. Easy for him to say. He isn’t the one being blindfolded and dragged to Etro-knows-where.

The tugging and pulling finally comes to a halt. He releases her hand.

“You can open your eyes now.”

She peels back the blindfold, opening her eyes to a vision she never thought she would see ever again.

The pier is just as beautiful as she remembers it. The stars in the sky just as plentiful. She can hear the ocean lapping at the beach; smell the sea-breeze as it kisses her cheek. 

“Cashed in a favour with the planet. I hope I got it right.” Noct’s smile is as tender as the twinkling lights above.

He gently turns her towards him. “I think it’s about time you stopped associating your birthday with the worse day of your life.”

“How did you...?”

He rubs the back of his head sheepishly, retrieving her survival knife from his pocket and handing it back to her. She accepts it wordlessly, cradling it to her chest.

“I would have gotten you a cake, but I didn’t know how many candles to put on it.” He jokes. It tugs at her heartstrings, seeing him trying so hard to make her smile.

“Are you calling me old?” She plays along, narrowing her eyes. Noct laughs.

“Don’t worry, even if you’re the oldest hag on the planet, I’ll still love you.”

 _Love?_ Her heart pulses. The after effects of that shockwave are still rippling through her when he reaches over to take her hand in his again.

“Doesn’t it amaze you? That for this moment between us, a whole world had to be created, born from magic and stardust. We were destined to meet. To be standing under the same sky. To be seeing from the light of the same stars. To be listening to the same ocean’s song.”

It should have sounded like a romantic notion. But her face remains pinched in thought, though her eyes continued to gaze at the stars in wonder.

“Don’t frown Light.” Noct puts his arms around her boldly. “Let’s just be happy, okay? Forget about everything else. Just for tonight.”

She had always wondered what true happiness felt like. But after this – after tonight – she no longer has to.

It felt like two people finding each other after years of searching.

It felt like seeing the morning dawn after an endless night without stars.

It felt like peace; the world in perfect harmony.

It felt like... _something she doesn’t deserve._

But she’ll take it. Just for tonight, she’ll take it _._

.

She dreams. Of a lonely pier stretching out from a white-sand beach, with aging boards that had seen a young girl grown into a woman. Of a red pick-up truck pulling into the driveway of a small beach house, Prince perking up his ears at the sight of home while Belator dozed nose-to-tail beside him in the truck bed. Of a black-haired boy who presses her up against the side of the truck, ducking his head down to steal a kiss, smirking at the blush on her face.

“At least warn me before you do that.” She protests.

He laughs, cupping her face in his hands. “Light, I’m going to kiss you now.” 

When she opens her eyes, the pier is gone, so is the beach house and the pick-up truck. The sun is already high in the sky and she curses herself for having slept in. She gives the Noct-shaped lump beside her a hard shake, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious about waking up next to him after that dream last night.

The lump lets out a sleepy yawn, squinting up at her through bleary eyes. “You’re frowning at me again. I like it.”

“Just checking that the fever hasn’t caused any permanent brain damage.”

With a little coaxing and a few empty threats she manages to get him out of bed and into the bathroom to start freshening up, leaving her alone in the empty space, trying to calm the thumping in her chest.

_Why am I afraid?_

She’s never done complicated. And it scares her to hell to have these feelings clouding her better judgement; being at war with herself, knowing that everything about this feels so wrong.

Being _happy_ feels so wrong.

_Wake up, Farron! This isn’t a fairy tale. Problems aren’t going to go away, you aren’t going to be whole again just because he’s patient and kind, cute as hell, and might actually love you._

With so much standing between them – the fate of three worlds and all the lives to go with that...

_...how can I even dream that there might be a future for us?_

 

.

_And I’ve lost who I am, and I can’t understand why my heart is so broken, rejecting your love._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively titled: the angst is never done


End file.
